Funeral

A boy once killed a song for me
I never listened to it on my own,
Only with him.
So when he died to me—
vanished into a suburb close to mine,
but not quite mine,
the song died with him.
The breathy, titillating sound
from the singer’s throat
was but a spirit
a church bell from a different earth
without tone, or flaw—
simply flat, and dead.

The song offered itself unexpectedly,
and the aimless, estranged voice that met my ears
held the tremble and woe of a pauper—
a sound that I had long forgotten.
Spring air seems cold;
aloof.
My breath clouds the windshield
and I touch it lightly upon instinct.
My fingertips leave dreadful prints,
like rose petals in the snow,
abandoned and forgotten on a January morning
Crisp air turns my lips red
Stung by a kiss
This voice on the radio was no longer the singer’s,
but his,
enchanting, yet akin to the falseness of memory itself

I sat in the heatless car
listening to the radio
to the song that defined him
to the words he would betray
We listened to the music as if it were the gentlest pulse
As if this beat would guide us to the heart of the song
The heart that you would break,
much like you broke my own.

The dial is turned
and suddenly,
the grass is lush—
quivering, under the tender caress of the spring air
All around me is alive
including the love from another
But your song,
our song
is dead forever.