You said that you forgot

You said that you forgot

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.