a graceless elegy

I have to confess, in shame -
before I admitted myself to Holly Hill,
-the psychiatric hospital here-

Not knowing who would tell you that
I had lost; that I had finally broken every promise left
and laid down in the snow;
It haunted me.

The ravaging 'haunted,'
insomnia in the mortal hours
pacing at 4 a.m with my arms wrapped around myself
haunted, screaming soundlessly -
I thought of you, in those moments, and some others.

I decided to claw and crawl and howl and otherwise
assert my will to remain
...if not necessarily to live. Not yet. That would come later.

So I went to the hospital and endured five days of that
unique but not particularly interesting form of torture.

I never told you this.
The gulf between us did not allow for this kind of confession.

What a bitter irony.

Not even a year later, I learned on social media (of all places)
that you died, alone on your kitchen floor.

The soundless screaming from before rendered as nothing
compared to this… silence.
This fundamental, oppressive, profound
Silence.
I hear nothing, but my throat is raw -
shredded, rent, torn -

If a grief could be powerful enough, matched only by my will, to reach you
If I even have the right to impose upon the universe (I claim it.)
If I even have the right to speak after so long (…please allow me.)

I would tell you that I love you.
That I miss you.
That I’m sorry.
And, finally,

goodbye.