GRIEF Poem: Needles, by Amelia O’Neal

Sometimes
it crawls in through an email
adorned with an ominous subject line
like Grandma
or Call me.

Sometimes
it’s an invite to a group chat
and once
I even found death
hidden between the lines
somewhere in the comments section.

In such a way yours passed right through me
like an apparition passing through a stone wall.

I am since savoring your missingness
biting off morsels
of photographic evidence
– your hair falling into your eyes
– you immortalized
for as long as the servers hold.

I find you in pixels
found lost in an upload
of masquerade balls
and the cozy debauchery
of those early aughts
pixels of my eyes meeting yours
– your hair falling into your eyes
– your eyes gazing down at a lit cigarette

and I can still feel your eyes on me
if I stare long enough at mine.

Mine
dilated with love
– not one of those once-in-a-lifetime loves
but a love you carry with you through life
a love that carries you through life
softly wrapping a blanket around
the shoulders of the memories
of the cozy debauchery
of those early aughts.

A wisp of the fingers
while sharing a cigarette
kind of love.

One photo
of us wading in the floods
of the sounds of your guitar chords on my ears
– your hair falling into my eyes
– my lips a wisp on your fingers
as we share a cigarette

and the way your words ran together
as you serenaded the sun
rising over the lofts
– you daring it to finish the job
– me begging it not to.

Really though
how many more times
would we have met up anyway?

I only get to visit every few years now.
You probably wouldn’t even be in town.

We’d become just another one of those friendships
drifting into our respective middle ages.

Me, to abroad.

You, to your needles