A house without visitor
a life without notice
the invisible among us
silent behind their walls
we think nothing of
in our hour of mirth
trying instead to catch the tailcoats
of that good feeling as long as it lasts.
For some of us, if we are lucky
we never run out
of brightly colored days and regard
for others, life is a jigsaw of incomplete moments
too much spent unnoticed and forgotten
behind structures that do not speak
the words too hard to say.
We are not selfish for wanting to stay
free of sadness, and shrugging it off when seen
though it compounds those many weary souls
alone so often it begins to feel
like a waking death.
I used to wonder at their fortitude, why
they continued on, what kept them going
if anyone ever gave them a thought
never imagining I could become myself
their neighbor in isolation.
There is nothing to be done for it
some of us are by our natures and fate
passed over, left behind, forgotten
no pity required, we sustain ourselves
on the very grief felt, sitting at single tables
trying to open our mouth to sustaining.
Sometimes, even breathing is
perhaps, when we die early
this is why
for the body responds to sadness
shutting down, closing off
turning out the last light.
I think of childhood and how I should have known
it was a preparation, or a warning, depending
but then I had hope
and now you cut me off
with not so much as a whisper
and I see my own reflection fade
from all memories and all common ground
to become what maybe it always was
before I ever existed, before
time itself, counted down
though loss is not the right word
for you cannot lose what you