There’s a subtle, almost quiet decay
Once a person dies
Not of the body – of the life.
Dust settles into the spaces
Flowers die and leaves rot on the floor, covering it
Windows get dirty and the light is muddy
Nobody’s is here to maintain what was there anymore.
Phones stay silent. People stay silent.
You stay silent. You stay forever silent.
The force that kept it all going, the warmth – is gone.
It’s all really just too cold.
Like it’ll never be warm again. Not really.
We’ll never see your eyes sparkle,
We’ll never, ever fight,
We’ll never not be sad.
The breakdown is slow. A crack here. An absence there. But then it hits you:
She always did that for us. And that. And that other thing.
And no matter how much I’ll try: I can never wash dishes as badly as you.
Or sing out of tune. Or light up a room the way you did.
And the decay becomes permanent.
You can clean the windows, re-plant the pots, put more wood on the fire.
You just have to make a life without that life in it
That empty seat will never, ever, be filled.
And all life encompasses decay like this, in perpetuity.
