Until this moment,
I haven't written a word down,
scared to articulate my pain.
Somehow, writing of the event
cements its permanence,
like I am taking some metaphysical account of the members of the world,
and you now,
by my pen,
are admittedly
Not here.
And, in this account,
I must divorce myself from guilt perceptions
and the continual replays of you and I in my mind.
But, even in modest objectivity-
The news: presented pictures
that I have since projected
onto my movie screen of memory:
you: hanging.
A single light illuminating-
something not unlike film noir,
so said your sister upon finding you.
The consequential effect,
your pain's undoing-
my sweetest girl,
the most muted human shade of blue.
You: the girl that was on the phone with me,
minutes prior, crying.
Crying out,
Talked over.
You: the woman who I told was "facing death"--
accurate or encouraging?
How much power did you burden me with?
How much power you did burden me with.
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