There is a ghost in my kitchen and I can’t ask it to go.
I loved him but, angry, chose not to tell him so.
He left and I cried, and hoped he could see
That the thought of life without him was killing me.
He showed no emotion, but it was killing him, too.
His life ended that day; it was only then that I knew.
His grief and mine were two parts to a whole.
Both feeding each other, too afraid to let it show.
Now I can’t face the kitchen and the memory of that day.
Is the ghost his last farewell or the words I didn’t say?