Chore Of The Living

As I stare at the ceiling again

Gnawing at my veins

Is the absence you positioned precariously.

Perched on the window sill

As I lay still on the ruffled bedsheets.

On the ceiling, bleeding blue paint.

The ceiling fan only adding to the dampness

My lungs heaving for another breath

I daresay they know your touch is no longer there to alleviate pain.

In the corner of the room

Where the azaleas wither in silence

As if to mourn the light you exuberated.

The white shirt now home to moths

Festered and chafed.

The stealthy grass prodding at the cement

Your voice reverberating through the thick air weighing down on myself

"Walt Whitman said 'because grass grows in and around the graves, there is life after death.' "

I believe it 

Your shadows try to cope with your latency

Of existing in a rotting memory.

It hides in my skin

It flows when I think

And breaks into harrowing cries when I disguise it with futile efforts of concealment.

Death doesn't end with dying

Of a person or of his things 

It's when the mind dissolves the memories pertaining to suffering.