A sick sentiment
Obsessing over inanimate objects
A year and a half his crutch has been in my shed
And I'm moving now but can't get passed
This idea that it should come with everything of him that is left
Like the sum of his ashes unspilled on the table
From our ritual filling of silver mementos
That now leaves my throat feeling hollow
This inanimate object like a noose around my neck
A year and a half later our mother asks if I have bipolar depression
And she references our blood in the past tense
It takes little for me now to control my emotion
Except for when I think of him
A year and a half later and I pretend I've curbed the anxiety attacks
From when I had a dream he was in the driver's seat
Taking us off the cliff
Long before I ever lived on the ridge
Or woke up late at 8 am
and didn't respond to his text message
passed the hotel off the exit again
And the apartments where I could have done everything different
In honesty, for a while, I resented the death of him
Simply because it was something for myself I had imagined
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