Another morning — and your name still 
slices into me.  There’s no simile for this, 

              or metaphor about how sharp this is, 
how dead you are. I’m afraid 

               I’m getting better at shrugging you away 
each day, always at the same time, 

              when the city starts its cheap music, 
belting the usual off-tune torch songs. 

              That impulse to go to the window to look at 
anything — a man bolting a sign to a wall, 

              another taking a break in his junk 
of a truck, thermos sticky with fingerprints. 

              This hunger to be distracted from thinking 
of you —  the want for a cloud, call, or a friend’s 

              small tragedies to stop me from remembering 
you.  Is that when one begins to die?  

              When the slipknot you thought would never 
let go of your throat feels looser?  And when it does, 

              and you’re secretly relieved — is that a sign?  
And which of us exactly is it who is dying?