the sound of grief

is a ringing in my ears that plays to the tune of your favourite song
                                                the one we used to sing while stuck in morning traffic
it hasn’t stopped since the day I kissed your blood covered forehead.
if I listen closely, I can hear your voice
                                                though most days I forget what this sounds like,
not like the sound of your scream
                                                (or was it mine?)
louder than the sirens of the ambulance
quieter than the screech of the machine measuring
                                                                                    the love (that isn’t) left in your veins
the same screech that escapes your lips
                                            (or are they mine?)

in my dreams      where I look for you every night
but I never find you
and the ringing doesn’t stop
and I keep looking      this time with my eyes open
digging through your mother’s sobs and
                          your father’s shouts
all the places you knew best
all the places you hated most 
            look at me
            tell me your name
            say something             (anything)
the last gasp that left your lungs sounded like the song
                                                                                    except the music didn’t sound right
because in between the diastole and systole of a heartbeat
                                                                                    there is silence
                in the moment between a breath and a wail
                                                                                    there is silence
and no matter how far I reach             in between your hand and mine
                                                                                    everything is silent.