Beginning to dance on her grave.

The solitude grows richer and sweeter
Chirps and birdsong embroider the edges of my rooms now
edging towards the stains
smoothing over the blood flecks

A faint murmur is all that is left of your
bitter rants and cheerless existence

I can hear your screeching in the boxes of your photographs.

That nasty broad grin fooling the onlookers 
in photo after photo after photo

Convicing yourself too,  as you idly skimmed them later

If your sourness had walked the earth in online times, I could have deleted you with a keystroke.

"Look at everything," the estate sales man warned.
"There might be a treasure tucked in her stuff."

So, I touch them all. 

In hope of glimpsing myself, shining, growing, daring to live,
while ground underneath her heel.