It's time for you to go

When I told you I never wanted you to leave,

I didn’t expect a twisted genie

adjusting my wish for maximum pain.

I didn’t expect to wake up screaming from my dreams,

or wait in the shower for your head to poke past the curtain.

I wrap myself in a blanket printed with your faces on it.

I pour my nightly whiskey from a bottle painted with your portrait.

A stray hair on the seat of the Bronco

turns the tears back on.

I have to stop telling our stories as

the mere sound of your name is too heavy to carry.

It’s been nine months and my house is a museum of you.

I still look over, expecting.

I still call out into the empty rooms.

Your collar hangs on my bedroom door.

Your fur still drifts across the floorboards.

I bought this house so you’d have a yard to run in

not so I could bury you in it.

I held onto all of this.

I thought keeping the pain meant keeping a piece of you.

But I hurt too much.

I weep too often.

Brother, sitting here on your grave,

I need you to know how deeply you are loved.

I’m so sorry.

But it’s time for you to go.