I am always talking around your
ghost. There is cold. There is absence.
The loss of you guts, which has
all but killed me. I have gone
into a process of repenting, through
the stain horror of culpability. I killed you - you are me.

Not suicide - metamorphosis. I don't like
this person we became. Bound by this thread
named shivering, this hollow of fear, this red connection. I run through
the house of mirrors, foreign and afraid. Within the radiant vibrant silver, not a
familiar image is held. I'm afraid my heart could fit through the eye of a needle;

it takes everything
not to mourn that. To be a person again. To be my own I.
To do as the living do.
To ignore my center column this act of resurrection is.
From the morgue drawer I pulled myself out and stitched
a new body together. That is: never to sit alone, but instead, with
the haunting past. Self is a monster. Its
presence consuming. Its dreadful depth. Its grave grey color.

rebirth, reinvention, resurrection, golden shovel after WS merwin