AIMEE TACON

the waiting room is cold
and I am empty

on the worn couch, resting against the clinical wall
I sit next to a blue man

his eyes match my shirt
he stares straight ahead
to two glistening pools that shift

he searches their reflection for a memory
a girl called Hope
with eyes that smile
and lashes that kiss apple-d cheeks

we sit, and we lie, and we both know
he will not find her
she is no ghost and she is not made of tears
she is real and she is flesh and

her lids are as heavy as the door that swings shut behind me

this new room is made of shadows
and this new woman is made of sheets

I mourn the old hollow ache
because I am suddenly full, so full
I am being filled with cotton, stuffed and seamed
a mutant toy bear screaming “Get Well Soon”

the room tightens as I expand
spilling cards and words and polite small talk

I take up everything and
beneath the weight of my good health
she is a pale flower

I hold it out to him now
a bouquet of sorries
that will wither against polished wood
fallen petals, rotting sweet
piled on a porch built for two

he tells me he’s fixing the house for her
a method of distraction
ready for when she comes home
he can’t look too long, though

it belongs to her, he says
the house is full of her

and I see it
a pale house full of pale rooms
and enough pale space to drown a blue man whole
I watch the tidal wave wash him out before me
and we watch the blue blood drain slowly
seated beside each other
quiet on the couch against the wall in the waiting room

my car is hot
my face is sticky
the elevator is loud
the questions are louder

my heart races, faster
running, pounding, reaching forward
blind on the high of my breathing
the absence of breathing
I am not breathing
I have stopped breathing
I cannot breathe
at all
I can’t
and they’re not
they’re not gone yet, or they are
and I want to but
I cannot say goodbye breathing
I have learned this much

I cannot say goodbye breathing

that is not how you speak to the dead.