We called him our rock,
but really he was the night star
we oriented our lives around:
spinning, traveling, out-of-control,
lost, we had only to look up,
to find our way again.
You’re not gone yet,
Or, are you,
Possibly beside me here
as I write this poem, play this song.
Do you hear the music I hear—
Know my thoughts—
Feel what it is to be emptied?
The lungs close in on themselves
And all around us is less than we need—
Want—wish for—desperately fight to breathe.
Tell me there’s an afterlife,
A place where you’ll wait,
All things separated, rejoined,
The things we can feel,
And the things we believe are here,
Even when we cannot see.