boxes

he drank

himself to death

found days

after his heart

exploded

on a bottled landscape.

I wasn’t there

to hold him back

from the ledge

others didn’t realize

that he would

go there

when I did.

my inheritance

arrived in boxes

too heavy to carry

thousands of letters

and pictures

chronicling

our life.

in his journal

our days

in exotic locales

always ended

in late night

rambles.

at the time

I did not

have confidence

to warn him

of his indulgence

or to call

out his fears.

I was

besotted

blind to

my influence

to make

any difference.

we were young

and love

came to us

like quicksilver.

unpredictable.

willful

so fragile.

we weren’t

modern

so spent only

real time

locked together

in daydreams

his other

time

not well used

and disease

I know

kept him

from me.

she calls

every night

to know

if they came

I am

her connection

to her dead son.

I wonder

why she didn’t

call him

every night

to try

to talk him

off of the ledge.

at night

after long

days

he stands

in a corner

and watches

me sleep.

he is warm

now

safe from

his demons.

and with me

always

I suspect.