Death Without Dying

Driving home
on Christmas,
passing out of town,
out where the neon
of the truck stop was fading,

light bounced and dazzled
off the headstones
of the city cemetery.
Quick pulses like
heartbeats of bright white,
red and purple
as we drive off at 40
miles per hour.

The passing of people
not celebrating Christmas,
but their 21 grams float
as dust motes
past the soft bulbs
of Christmastime,
past the windows
of their loved ones,
round the table
with a halo of incandescence.

Driving home
I am confused,
moving on,
is easy.
Sleeping is 
a commitmentless
death.
And forgetting you
is like putting you six feet under.
The frost may not even touch your
toes, still, 
way down deep 
where I put you with love.

I am walking away,
bouncing like the light
of the graves.
Beautiful flashes of souls
in front of the TSA 
travel stop
and the Wheel Room
diner.
24/7.
To feed those souls
everyone forgot about.

I expect to see your face
in the frosted window,
sipping weak black coffee
from a cracking mug.
Runny eggs on your plate.

Instead I am forgetting.

Soon you will be the passing of 21 grams-worth
of dust
I breathe you in,
out again,
but don't choke on your being this time through.

I am full of dust,
full of the fragmented light
I am the dancing of stained glass
in the dark church windows.

Your face is lost in the pews.