It Is What It Isn't

It Is What It Isn't

It is
your thumbprint
imprinted on a pendant
dangling from a chain around my neck.

It is
grass unmown, weeds grown
over the remnants
of a once-happy home.

It is
dishes unwashed, floors unswept,
dust settling on memories
kept tightly closed.

It is
walking an unmarked path
through a forest of monsters
lashing skin I no longer feel.

It is
pushing into the wind
no matter which way I turn,
face burned as if I could see the sun.

It is
a goodbye that won't be
whispered, a whimper that can't be
heard.

It is
time bent backwards, one
minute, one moment, one son
kidnapped by God.