When Last We Spoke

When last we spoke, I bought you a pack of cigarettes
And gave you a hug. Walking home afterwards,
I marveled at how I didn’t cry; then I remembered,
It was my birthday.

Your leaving was more like death. All that was left was a single,
Eyes closed snapshot on my wall. Rare letters’ arrival felt more
Like finding an old pair of shoes under the bed long after you’d
Been buried and your things cleared away, the sight of them
Renewing the grief.

I kept your black shirt for over a year, sometimes thinking
Your scent lingered on it. In the end I tossed it in flimsy a
Plastic bag, along with all the empty beer bottles and old
Newspapers that cluttered my room, that made the place stink
Like a crypt.

You became a ghost. You became a recollection, whispered
In the fading daylight over cool drinks. You became a distant,
Unkind figure from the past, like the long-dead grandfather
I never knew.