the month in which you died

you had to call my name,
and move closer
so that i could hear your voice,
my dearest friend, the month
in which you died.
the doctors premonized a day
you would be missed,
but i, i didn't want you to leave
away from this world,
away from such pinnacle;
so pleased all who knew you were.
i could write a cliche,
make a new thing to say
the month in which you died.

did you go home that day,
my dear friend, for fear of falling
from the swollen form your legs
carried, so new and so confusing?
you danced the tango,
dominated everything, you fuckin leo,
and it was strength's turn to fail,
make you oddly frail
the month in which you died.

did you go home that day,
my dear friend, and die?
your life was soaring like a legacy
no one wants to write,
but the epitaph was on your lips
the day i saw you,
hardly recognized you,
the day in which you died.
your children all will mourn,
and oh your husband quickly fill
his empty bed and quicksand heart.
i will cry for you at home,
on the way to work, and in a
bathroom stall: because i loved you
and such a beautiful person
should live forever,
yet fools subsist and liars
bleat the same rhapsody
while i am silently quaking,
pouring water from my doe eyes:
the same to look on you,
my fearsome friend,
the month in which you died.