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What are you waiting for?
It’s been ten months since you left this place
riding your last great high straight into the ground
needle, still protruding from your arm
leaving the rest of us to wonder what went wrong.
And every day, when your likeness flickers and fades into focus,
a pain rises in my throat, stinging my eyes and esophagus
as memories of you twist and bend through my consciousness,
calling forth an insurmountable wave of emotion which never seems to break.
I haven't yet decided whether I regret touching your cold, stiff hands
as you lay sleeping in that creepy, community coffin at the wake,
face fixed in a horribly unnatural grimace of death,
because I know I can't ever forget the horror of it all.
And sometimes, I daydream of sneaking some witchdoctor or voodoo priestess
into that closet of your parents’ house, where your ashes lie in a garbage bag,
to try and wake you back to life
so we can grow old and senile together, just like we were supposed to.
