Grass Still Grows Around The Graves

I open the door to a dark, empty apartment
And cook a meal of sweet potatoes and sturgeon for only myself.
My eyes avert from the bed, now bare, where your kind form once slept
And your books lie lifeless like fallen soldiers on the floor.

I tell myself that you are not gone forever
Or that maybe I'll get used to your absence eventually
And that my eyes will stop automatically darting up to see if
There's a light on in the window on my way to the front door.

Perhaps I can convince myself in time
That your sweetly sad kisses meant nothing much to me at all
And your brokenness never met with beauty
In my eyes at all, ever.

As I bike through the forlorn twilight of the city
Picking up your scent in my memory-
The mourning doves flit wildly upwards with frantic cries
And ever quietly, the grass still grows around graves.