Two years after you died,
I picked your box of ashes up
off the table and cradled
them like a newborn in
my arms.

You were there, a flicker of
you in a suit for work, or the ugly
maroon and gold sweatpants
at home, and then,
you were gone.

Taken in an instant,
walking while someone was
going 35mph.
Red and blue lights flashed
at dusk, a warning gone off
too late.

You stopped,
and I continued,
pressed to the pedal
at top speed.

I became lost in
myself, grasping at
anything I could to stay
tethered to you,
the taste of your favorite
menthol cigarettes
mixing with grief.

I imagine each puff of
smoke is another second
closer to you,
the smoke rising to send
you a signal that

I’m still here.