I Never Asked You

The night the call came,

I watched the ceiling fan

carve the dark into pieces.

The words slid through the phone

like oil under a door—

no drama,

just fact.

Your name in past tense.

-

I never asked you

how it felt to be found like that.

I never asked you

if the bottle was empty

when you hit the floor,

or if you meant to leave it half-full,

so someone could imagine you’d be back.

-

The funeral smelled like wet wool and chrysanthemums.

People touched my arm

like they were testing for a pulse.

I kept my eyes on the shoes I’d bought the week before—

still new enough to creak.

I hated them for it.

-

I never asked you

if you knew what it would do to me.

If you cared.

If that night you thought of the way

I still kept the shirt you spilled wine on.

The one I never wore again,

but never threw away.

-

They tell me grief gets lighter.

They don’t say it just sinks lower,

settling in places you can’t reach

without tearing something open.

I never asked you

to come back.

But in the quiet,

you do.

.