My hands smell of latex
from the powdery gloves I hate to wear
to poke around the insides
to see what brought us all here alone,
and I think of nothing else.

I pass the mirror
and see my father in my face,
we drive in silence sometimes,
it's refreshing.
You and I could do that too,
sit quietly. Or fall asleep even
'cause we knew we would wake there together
without saying a word.

I can't listen to John singing
'cause I just see your face
and I feel so vividly
us in my room, windows open
endlessly laughing.

I curl up with my hands awkward
near my face on the pillow
and I smell the latex,
sterile and lonely.

He died yesterday,
and I think he's okay.
But I don't know if I will be
if I don't die with you,
silently.