Casey
Rejected by the loss
of you. I can no longer
gaze upon your pictures,
a troubling wince within
the side of my eye.
It twitches — a lazy sort
of feeling. A redundant
pause for all to see, to watch
and point at.
I am rejected by the loss
of you. Your throne
is now vacant for months,
collecting things other than
fur in perfect placement.
I find crystals of litter strewn
along the tiles of the kitchen
floor. They sparkle in the dim
lighting of the bulbs.
I am so very much rejected by the loss
of you. Your soft being reposes no
longer against my feet at night.
The evenings where you rested
your head on my pillow
have left in a dreamscape —
off to the ends of the blue plant.
I am so very much feeling rejected by the loss
of you. Your silver bowls you would swat
at have been thrown in black garbage bags,
taken to longitudes I can only imagine.
The apartment is void of sound in the early
hours, as I pace from left to right and hear
nothing in the place of my own footsteps.
I am so very much feeling utterly rejected by the loss
of you. So now, your prints, made in clay, stand
silently on the dresser. They pause each day,
begging to be pressed upon. And every sunrise
I cannot leave your memory behind. I pet
your phantom body, as you purr in perfect pitch.
Joseph Chilman is a writer from Uniondale, Long Island. When not writing or teaching, Joseph can be found hanging out with his various pets, of which he plans on getting more in the near future.
The Marbled Sigh 