Dearly beloved,
A Manhattan with a twist
rests, untouched,
un-sipped, on the tile
countertop of a 
hollow house,
 
Remember where you used to sit
eager for Ellen or Oprah 
to play on the TV screen. 
Or how you chose
the same spot on the couch
from four to five,
and how when it got cold,
I would wrap you
in a cocoon of cotton blankets.
You always had 
an exceptional view
of the clean laundry that needed folding. 
Maybe that was your motivation
to stand up from your cozy spot?
Or was it Connor and me bickering? 

How about when I would
spend the night- arriving
with my sleepover bag,
and the toothbrush dangling
off its pocket. A whiff
of cinnamon spice would
collect itself by the
recliner chair, in front
of the cabinet of
ceramic angels. Your
wooden fridge stocked with
chocolate Jello pudding, and 
the pantry loaded with
fruit roll-ups, the cool kind,
the ones that
tattooed your tongue. We would 
sleep altogether in your
living room, afraid
of the monsters 
down the hall. The clock above
the island's wall still 
ticks away, but without
meaning. Leaves pile
up in the 
changing season
but the rake
never leaves the shed.

How about the time 
I came to visit
you in the hospital, a makeshift
place for our very own
spa-day- I painted
your nails a deep fuschia pink-
and we gossiped,
about the new
dry shampoo you'd 
been using. Only 
hatefully, I can still 
picture the wires 
that surrounded you.

I cannot forget
how often I did not
visit you in that
hospital room. You
never left me- 
how could I have 
left you?

I cannot forget
that all you desired 
was to be at home,
drifting away 
in your own bedsheets.
You gave me a piece of myself,
what did I give
to you?