The problem with the dead.

I found her in bed, still warm.
Without the look of peace I was promised,
but instead a permanent look of terror.
Eyes wide, jaw agape,
hands clenched into claws.
She was alone at the end of it all.

And I'll never forget the way her skin felt
as I touched her arm to be sure.

There is no heartbreak comparable to this.
Simmering beneath the surface
to overwhelm when least expected:

At the best of times,
it shows in the lines under my eyes.
At the worst,
I can't get out of bed for fear
moving will make this real.

I can't seem to sleep without her face
haunting my dreams.
Sometimes healthy, often not. Always dead.
Most generally with her corpse
strategically placed around my house
in the place that will scare me most.

Draped across the bathtub,
mangled on the floor,
next to me in bed.

Always for me to relive finding her
over and over again.
It wakes me in hysterics - unceasing until -
I fall back to sleep and repeat the cycle.

The problem with the dead
is they come back to life again and again
when you just want
to forget they ever lived in the first place.

I can say with certainty, I've never felt this alone.
No amount of company is comforting
and I keep waiting for that person - the one
who will break through and provide
a shoulder, an ear, a hand to hold,
that will actually help.
Then I realize she's the one that died,

and I'm alone again.