by Dawn Schout

The moon is half empty
tonight. Trees hover, darker
than the sky,
shake branches at me.
Stoplights blink
red. The road is abandoned,
houses sleeping.

A bug smashes into my windshield.
An animal, killed too many times,
is pressed into the road, unrecognizable.
The bridge we walked
is blocked for repair.

Lilies close and die one day after
blooming, break at the stems,
severed and suffocating.

I bring him fake flowers
that won’t wither or die,
water them with tears.

I want a picture of him,
more memories,
but only have his words, a persistent
ache, and emptiness.
To keep him
living, I fill it with words.

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