Ne me lis pas.

Once a year I write to you now;

once a year immersing myself

in the suddenly unfamiliar recollection that you are gone and staying gone.

Like an apology. "Sorry you're still dead",

as though sooner or later you might get better,

or otherwise that I might get worse enough to visit.

Sorry you're still dead.

Sorry I'm so fucking morbid about it.

Anyway, what to tell you now?

The trees still turn bare in the autumn

and come alive again in the spring, much the same way you do not,

and what to tell you now?

My hair came back – longer than ever. You'd have liked it.

I laugh a little more like you. Funny the things you'll do

to keep someone in the world,

and what to tell you now?

The days still carve a little more away from me, chips of gravel

striking the face of a chemical sculptor as I become

smoother round the edges or perhaps

better formed or maybe just

some new thing entirely who knows but

you, beloved flash of pink and noise in the world, remain unchiselled,

and what to tell you now?

I wish you could meet who I'm becoming. She still loves you.

Anyway, what to tell you now?

You're the only thing about me that doesn't change anymore.

Sorry you're still dead.