to answer the question
on your profile
about smoking.
When we stepped out
of the bar you asked me
if I really was a social smoker
who was trying to quit.
I said yes. Then you said
you smoked too, you just
somehow missed or forgot
to answer that question
and could we walk to your
car to fetch your cigs?
I suppose that should
have been a sign
of the other things
you forgot to tell me.
That you had a brother
whose existence was never
mentioned until he was in a coma
when the tumor in his throat
nearly asphyxiated him.
And now we were all
gathered at the hospital
deciding when to turn off
the life support machines.
His hands were still warm
and you cried.
Did you forget to tell me
until another couple of years
had passed that you had
given up a daughter
when you were seventeen
but had found her
when she was twenty one?
You didn’t tell me
you were having trouble
with numbers and that
sleeping all day for a week
wasn’t just jet lag.
Did you forget to tell me
goodnight and that you
loved me the night before
you died as the sun rose?
Your hands were still warm,
but you forgot to breathe, didn’t you?
I said goodbye, but I don’t think
you heard me in this world.
I lay beside you as you cooled
and I cried until the coroner
came and did their customary duty.
