I don't see you
in the morning when I wake up.
Your gumboots are gone,
and instead of your scent, I smell ash.

Every flower in every jar
you left around the house has wilted,
and if I didn't know better
I'd expect you to be out picking more.

But I'd like to keep that hope alive.

I'm good, I'm alive.
I'm okay.
I'm a solid three and two quarters...
But on what scale?

Everyone has a different scale.

And I wish that I had known yours.

But I think I can feel what you felt
when I put my head under the waves.
I can feel it when I'm close to the edge.
I can feel it whenever I lose my way,
or when the sun can't promise that it
will come back tomorrow.
When I remember you're gone.

But you're there right?
In your garden picking flowers.
In the sunlight singing softly.
I like to think you're there.

And I'll see you when I'm ready.



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