If I left the door open to the possibility

That your death was absolute

I wouldn’t be able to venture out into a world

Where you aren’t

And never will be again.

The hollowness within me

Would expand

So deep and so vast,

So hot,

That my outside world would


You’re only missing,

Is what I tell myself.

You’re on a long vacation,

And I cannot find your number

Or go where you are.

You’re far away,

But you’re alive,

And that’s all that matters.

I never cried at your funeral,

Your casket was empty—

An assembly, lined and dressed in black

For no reason.

I’ve closed the door to the possibility that you are dead,

But now and again, my mind will wonder towards reality

And I’ll see that the door to the possibility that you are alive

Does not open.

As a matter of fact,

There is no handle.

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