Heaven
Maybe it isn’t my place to write this.
I’ve never had a dirty needle in my arm
or a flatline announcing the absence of my heart beat.
I’ve never had withdrawals,
but I’ve been awake at 4 a.m. on the bathroom floor
craving the presence of something toxic.
I’ve been to a lot of funerals.
I’ve lost people slowly,
and quickly
right in front of my face.
I’ve checked for breathing
in the middle of the night,
more times than I can count.
I’ve lost myself
loving someone,
and watched them
choose chemicals
over me
again,
and again
until
I finally
picked up a pen
when they refused
to pick up the phone.
I’ve wanted to die.
I’ve looked into empty eyes
that once held
my whole world, and
I’ve learned
six feet
is a lot farther down than you’d think.
I’ve planted flowers
that refused to grow.
I’ve found God
and lost him
and prayed
for a place
to call home,
and
I’ve learned
that there is no address
for where people go.
But
I’m still writing you
letters
that I’ll never be able send.
I’ve dreamt of you
in languages
that are now foreign
to my tongue.
Writing these poems
is starting to feel
like a form of addiction,
and now
I’m drunk
on your memory.
I know I’ll probably
never see you again.
I don’t know what I believe,
but
when it comes to Heaven,
I know that
you
are the closest
I’ve ever been.
© Gina Clingan 2017
From my book, Everything After, which can be purchased here.
