I remember the sound the door made,

When you slammed it shut in my face.

But I also remember shaking for the first time ever,

When you held me tightly-

And introduced me to the idea of not being afraid.

I remember how cold the phone was in my hand- when I picked it up.

I remember not believing the words she said.

I remember my emptiness,

I remember the boxes and boxes of unused tissues.

I remember seeing you again.

I remember the clothes, too.

The suit you never wore,

But looked so good in, and the unnaturally shiny shoes.

You didn’t look like you were asleep; I knew what that looked like.

You looked different,

Like stone,

Like plastic.

I remember waiting patiently,

Watching carefully,

Wanting desperately-

For your chest to rise and fall, again.

And I remember it didn’t.

I remember it didn’t.