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by Brandice Askin

You were here once.

I know it from your smell,

impressions of you preserved in light.

You left gifts to discover--

your last painting: a watercolor of my home,

“All Out Of Love” by Air Supply,

your CD in the player.


In dishwashers, cars, and freezers

where your spirit burrowed,

your maniacal mind and joyful laugh

corroded appliances, blocked gears,

waiting until we noticed

before going to the other side.


Then you bent backwards,

sank lower

until only the ground held you,

no more spark in the air.

Now, you carouse

on a cloudy balcony--

throwing objects,

hiding nickels,

spilling time.


One more spirit for mischief --

you entered the mega-multiplex

of God hands

and mini-movies with twilight shows.

One more spirit for laughter --

you wait there idly,

cheeks filled with rainbows,

spirit aglow.


Don’t forget me.

I know you won’t:

your love was always bigger than mine.

Your love burned us,

and ignited a few more lives gladly --

a firebolt of existence.

It was never your time.

Brandice Askin writes poetry and fiction to help her sleep at night. A cat can often be found obstructing her keyboard. She is a past winner of the Suncoast Writers Conference Short Fiction Contest. She currently lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, but has also called Oregon and California home.

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