To Kill A Dove
A friend who dies is something like you.
Your eyes are the white hue of blindness when you look at me,
The blankness in weather worn gravestones,
Mere opaqueness,
You are the death in us,
The subliminal in our words,
Dying a little in sighs and dirty dishes,
Leftovers and perpetual laundry,
The silent conversation over coffee.
This poem is about:
Me