old in my boots

eating cold pad thai
from the carton,
breakfast lunch and dinner,
slouching in threadbare 
pajama pants 

sitting in the shower
with no water running,
alternating between laughing
helplessly, and crying just
the same

i’ll bite down on my
knuckles hard enough
to bruise, the tender
spots where my fingers bend,
muffled and muzzled this grief

playing pallbearer at my
own funeral, equally haunted
and haunting

i am nothing but a ghost,
rebounding off the walls
of this long since emptied house

and you’re somewhere
i can’t reach quite yet,
and i don’t have your number,
but you still have mine

so give me a ring sometime,
and i’ll pretend you’re close enough
to twine our fingers together
just one more time