Keeler Pics 150

Today my tongue tastes yellow, not like lemons, but like nicotine stained fingertips, or young pus on the cusp of turning pea green. That’s what it is—my tongue tastes like infection. Tastes like your moldering death and sticky linoleum. Tastes like November 7th, the day I learned you’d died in that goddamned apartment with no one to mourn you but your fucking cat. It comes out of nowhere and somewhere both at once, this yellow sick. It begins in my belly, and travels upward through my esophagus, coating my mouth. Bile, oil viscous. Yes, this is the taste of my grief.

Fifty-eight years, you were gone at fifty-seven

Fifty-eight years since the day you were born,

nearly one year since you left–coming this November

I will cry, but not no harder than I’ve already been

Grief knows no clock–

mourning does not expire

The Sun still rises, and does fall

You’re still gone

and I’m still here

Your laughter lives inside my heart–

your laughter is a song

For that, I am thankful