in a whisper, a whimper
a gasp, a grasp
a life ends
and we meet
as strangers reveling
in our small ability to comfort
with small acts,
the only thing left in this world.
we have handshakes
and brief moments of eye contact
and everything is quiet
and this world can no longer speak
to us.
nor does it need to.
we are frauds in this world
and everything reveals us
to be hollow:
the shovels of dirt
landing on the coffin,
Michael, Lee's nephew,
crying sparsely
since yesterday was a holiday,
he overflows with spaces
pushing memories
out through salt and water.
the only pain ever felt
is the space-
full gaps left behind
in the bodies of the living
that are slowly sobbed together
patched up with whimpers
and gasps,
whispers and grasps-
a stranger awkwardly offering
comfort on another stranger's day.