May 8th, Her Birthday

Endings aren’t sad. So I tell myself to love

closed doors, locked windows, and stopped clocks

like I crave your embrace in still midwinter.

In two weeks, I will be staring at a closed lid and

pulse my hands beneath my thighs. I will watch the

second hand move as her family enters the door,

ellipsing the not-sad ending like ants. Then, I will smell spring rain through a wide-open pane.

A/N: Addressed to someone different than the "her" who died.