Fragments

Did I really know him? Won't he always be unknowable? Doesn't death make everyone unknowable, at last?

Everything melts to nostalgia.

How do I unbleed you?

Instead of crying, I write.

I care only about fragments. I live sentence by sentence.

I want to convey the mutilation of grief.

I write what I cannot speak to another person. Certain emotions are too raw, too unfathomable, to be said aloud in conversation.

Nostalgia is like exile. You are exiled from the past, you can never go back to it, but you can't stop thinking about it, writing about it.

People disappear and we have no word for it. We will never understand.

How to write what is incomprehensible? Maybe you don't write it. You write around it. You write about light and the moon and autumn. You write gestures, memories, descriptions of a material world forever on the verge of disappearing.

I sleep with books in my bed.

The pain lives in the words.

I want a tattoo of my father's name. I want to write him on my body.

I listen to music at night to keep from thinking about him.

I want to put his picture in a locket. I want him near me.

Something is in me. I can't get it out. Is it dead or alive? Why has it chosen me? My body cannot be cleansed of it.

Unspeakable absence

We didn't bury him, not really. We didn't let go. No, I didn't let go.

We are temporary substance.

I will grieve myself to death

Tear-stained hair

An unrequited aching for the dead

Every time I write, I fail. Forgive me.

I am tearing these words out of myself.