It's one week short of a year
Since your death,
And here I am, uncertain,
How to note it, or share it,
Since hardly anyone knows,
Outside family and bureaucracy,
And I'm sure of this, at least,
That's how you'd want it.
You complained, or maybe
That's not the word,
That the last thing I said
When we were in the same room,
Was nothing more than "Goodbye".
The last thing you wrote
In your last email,
Clearing up some banking details
And leaving me wondering
How you knew my online ID tags,
As if you'd been able to shadow me,
While I traipsed around the Net,
And that probably made you feel
Like laughing,
But, however you wrote it,
What you wrote, too,
Was nothing more after "Goodbye".
And there wasn't anything else,
Really, to say, was there?
Then, and then.
So now, one week short of a year,
When it's only me,
Again, goodbye.