The Blackest Beautiful

A tribute to the woman I loved, who passed away February 16, 2014. Goodbye my love.

On the day you died,

I fought for air on my kitchen floor.

The swelling of my throat caught me,

I stumbled and resisted tears.

If I'd had air to breath,

I would've screamed

until my black and useless lungs gave in.

I would've cried oceans

with the salt in my eyes stinging.

Now, I see your car through the fog

covering my eyes, perched

like a bird on concrete branches.

A beautiful black bird.

My hands tremble and go numb

when I remember what we said

and didn't say.

We preached wisdom,

believing God and time

were on our side.

One week later and

You're fighting for your life

and I'm fighting to maintain my own.

Yesterday,

one call and I'm by your bedside.

I heard the clicking of machines,

the labour of forced breathing,

the raggedness of your mothers voice

as she told me

everything would be okay.

I knew it wouldn't be.

I forced myself into hope.

I should've worn my blackest humours.

How fitting

that your last few minutes with me were

in your black car

in your black shirt

in your black shorts

in your black shoes

with my black lungs

breathing in the smoke

you brought me.

Now I stand against the tide of sobs

Your death has raised.

And though I will bade this river flood

and drown me where I stand,

I am still grateful to drink

from it with the cup you made me.

And like Poe and his Annabel-Lee

I know I will see you again

in our home by the river.

My wonderful, eternal

Aimee-Leigh.