Somewhere at the Bottom of the Morgue

I rarely miss anyone enough for it to be painful

I miss time

And spaces

And places

And minutes

But the tangible slips

It is leaky-faucet drips

People are context

People are stillborn

Dead-aching

Unmoving

Unyielding

Stagnant

I miss hands and mouths

I mourn words

I mourn touch

I hold funerals for sunbeams that fell through leaves long since passed

You will find me penning epithets to hungry breath lost on cold air

I will leave flowers where music once rang

I will dig holes 6 ft deep for ghosts

And leave the bodies to rot, carrion-feast

And I will drown weightless in their graves as I stitch myself to phantoms