loss is a lot like sitting on the floor

and staring at the moon 

and holding a wish like a secret piece of paper

in your mouth, lips pressed tightly closed

and eyes turning the blurring world into ash

and bits of dying firefly

 

while thinking about grandmothers who wink out like fading stars

as memories slip and slide like inexperienced skaters,

dissolving faster than the Alka-Seltzer tablet

that became her last meal

 

then remembering your first love’s brown eyes

that you hadn’t thought about since tenth grade;

the ones that now stare at you in your sleep,

begging unanswered questions

 

and trying to answer them, in your haze of grief,

and getting angry at the moon,

and fantasizing about throwing rocks

before giving up hope in a huff

of recognized futility

 

much like crying yourself to sleep

in a huddle on your bedroom floor,

a stuffed leopard clutched as close to your chest

as the bear you used to sleep with

 

or awakening to snowflakes

suspended as if by string,

swaying slightly in the breath of wind

that shudders from the rooftops

 

it reminds you of another boy,

eyes wide and bright and

elsewhere,

saying the cold never bothers him

when he focuses on the snow

 

he makes you think of a song you’ve heard recently

 

something about life

and lemonade;

 

one that scatters the fireflies & brings the crumbling world

back into focus

 

…

 

with your wishing lips pressed closed

you hum it to the moon