To the Memories I Could Not Have

To all the memories I could not have -
there's this empty space that my heart
always seems to notice.

When I choke at the sight of this emptiness
I plant upon it songs of woe,
I wet the abandoned bench with tears
and sometimes I get pretty unfortunate:
I imagine, imagine, imagine.

His taste. His touch. His words. His wants.

And all the gifts he could melt me with.

To the nothing that pervades my world:
I know I look a sculpture -
there's just black crows that worship me.
I know I appear frozen;
I know you think I do not hear.

Let me have a memory; let me call it mine -
I'd melt into the night before you catch me dying.