I know you. You don't want these words.

I thought I was writing this for you, but I know you--

you wouldn't want this. You wouldn't be touched

if you could hang around a little while and watch

me tuck a poem in your cold hand even knowing

you're not taking it with you anywhere.

I know you. You'd be offended to think 

that losing you broke anything in me--to think I felt

like I was losing you at all. If you were here, I'd tell you

how destroyed I am at your loss because you were always

the one that I told everything. And you would tell me

that nothing can destroy what God has built. 

If you were here, you'd be touched to see me pray. 

You'd tell me to seek God's face. It would matter to you

to see me strong and courageous. 

And I promise you, I'm trying to be what you would tell me to be

if you were here. So I guess I'm not writing to you

because I know you. You don't want these words.

I guess I'm writing this to tell myself what you would tell me

if you were here.