the shirt i wear makes me cry
when i look into the mirror.
the small bottle on the windowsill
still smells like you
though it’s covered in dust.
i see your scarred hand
touching guitar strings.
i see familiar smiles,
frozen,
on photographs.
you were holding me
when she died.
and crying,
when he died.
you cooked your last supper.
you laughed and sang with us.
it was just us.
i never hugged you goodbye.
Another Wandering Soul 