DEATH Poem: First of November, by Rebecca Bevilacqua

You go there each year holding flowers
To clean the gravestone with love,
Caressing his photo with shaky fingers,
And lean to kiss him one more time.

You talk about him every day,
Keep his portraits on your nightstand,
Your eyes watering even after fifty years,
Reviving the story of your fears and love.

You wear your ring on your left hand,
And his one always around your neck,
Like a comforting weight that reminds you
Of the short time you had in the same world.

Author: poetryfest

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