To say I am doing fine without you —
that would be a lie.

To say I am dealing with it —
the lack of you —
is more accurate,
but how would you define dealing?

There are so many things I wish to share,
with you, still.

Like today,
I wish I could tell you
how uncomfortable I feel.

I wish I could talk through how,
seeing them like this —
mimicking the movements of love —
makes my skin crawl.

I don’t know how to forget,
and something holds me back
from forgiving.

When I was nine,
or maybe ten or eleven —
those years blend together now —
I sat by my door,
sneaking peeks at my brother
sitting at the top of the staircase.

I’m pretty sure he told me
to close my door,
but I couldn’t help but listen
to what occurred one floor below us.

I remember
the crash; I remember
my brother running down the stairs;
and I remember the silence.

The next morning,
I noticed the dent
in the fridge,
and the streaks of defeat
written across her face,
and the echoing
lack of him.

I know I didn’t make it all up;
I know that what happened,
happened,
but how can they exist
like this, today?

Maybe it scares me —
the forgiving —
more than anything,
but god,
do I wish you would
hold me right now.