a person i love

lost her father
not twenty minutes ago
she is crying on the couch
upstairs

i am writing this poem

tomorrow
or the day after
she will get
a card
signed
by all her friends

when your father dies
you get cards
and flowers
sympathy
and inheritance

all sorts of shit
that will amount
to nothing
more
than a bad dream

this person i love
will be
someone else
in the morning
as she takes stock
of every empty thing
every deflated
second
of her past 27 years

i have nothing
to give her
but this poem
and a kiss
on the forehead
and those
         three
             short
         words