He sits among the living,
but they do not see him.
Their voices rise and fall,
a the pull of meaningless chatter,
rushing around him, never touching his strand.
A plastic tray before him,
a meal growing cold.
He chews, but the taste does not come.
It hasn’t, not since
He does not finish the thought.
She is gone.
His fingers find the thin gold band,
twisting, turning, resting
a ring too small for his hand,
too thin for timeworn knuckles,
but it fits his pinky,
as if it belongs there.
As if it always has.
It was hers.
And now, it is all of her
that he can still hold.
They told him to get out,
to be around people,
to have new experiences.
So here he is
at the mall, among the rush,
in a place where people are near enough
to dull the silence,
but indifferent enough
that he will not have to speak.
Because speaking would mean answering.
And answering would mean existing.
And laughing, enjoying, relating without her,
is a betrayal.
He has no right to laughter.
No claim to pleasure.
Every bite swallowed is another meal
that she will never taste.
Every song playing over the speakers
is a melody she will never hum along to.
Every kind smile from a stranger
is an echo of the one he will never see again.
How many times had he been away?
Business trips, across cities, across oceans,
It was never the same with her, left at home.
But he could return,
He could tell her what he saw,
He could take her back to the places
So that he could feel the joy of them.
She was the key.
But now
Now, he returns to the quiet.
To her empty side of the bed
To the mirror that used to frame them both.
All colorless, numbed, crushingly quiet.
He breathes in
ragged, slow, heavy with things
that will never be spoken.
An entire lifetime
that no one will ever know.
He twists the ring,
as if he is holding her hand.
But he is not.
He floats.
He exists.
But he died with her.
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