Things You Can’t Say in an Obituary

I wrote suicide on your death certificate,
for the pills you never took, the doctors
you refused to see. You signed 

a deal with death years ago,
but the gods are good lawyers,
always finding loopholes. You were running 

out the clock, but you never trained 
for a marathon. The race isn’t what hurts, 
it’s the ache you feel when you stop. 

You cancelled your life 
insurance policy and we paid 
for your death with our futures. 

I try to string the good memories together 
like worms on a fishing line (the way you taught me). 
We caught two fish that day and you snapped

my photo, gap-toothed smile beaming. 
I don’t remember what you said, 
but I must have laughed. 

You were always funny when I wasn’t
the punchline. I would say I miss you, 
but you were absent from most of my photo albums -

Every holiday you left without 
saying goodbye, every birthday 
you never celebrated, the empty chair

in every auditorium. Maybe you didn’t choose 
to die alone, but you chose death 
over me, every time.