I can feel my head on your chest as it rose up for the last time and never came back down.
I can see brother’s face scrunching up like a ball of paper and hear him punching the metal locker on the wall.
I can hear mother rummaging around in her bag for a pocket mirror and see her shoving it under your nose to confirm that you’d gone.
I can hear myself saying “What the fuck?”
watching your soul leaving
through the hospital ceiling.
My heart is in pieces this evening.
Three years today since the routine scan that ruined you:
the beginning of the end, your end, our end.
I can hear you telling me to stop crying
but it’s so hard to stop it once it’s started.
I’m coping the way that you did,
writing it out and smoking a cigarette:
and, just now, the clouds have melted,
the room is filled with light:
and, just now, my tears have dried
because I know that, tonight,
you are the sunset.