I was never prepared
to lose you. I lived
far away—a safe
distance from the sound
of battle. Some nights
I couldn't sleep
imagining you not
at home. Though
some nights I could
sleep. I wonder
how you slept,
your skull smooth
on the pillow.
B tells me stories
about her sister
who is trapped
in time at 9.
How heavy can
surrendered love
feel in our throats.
How easy it is
to text you a joke,
to swap photos
on our phones.
Today you turn 27.
I will cut my hair—
the smallest gesture
and think of you.
I will think of how
it felt to put my
whole hand on
your bald head.
How I can never
be prepared for
anything like that.