Carrying you

I woke up to the humming

of an empty space in the shape of a sweatshirt,

The whole day, an inhale,

while we watched your family melt.

There is no word sharp enough on both ends

to describe your mother's face, and

Nothing as grim as the sight

of so many cups of water, half empty.

When we carried you,

they played the organ,

And the whole town had no shadow,

except the hearse, wide open like a mouth.

We gave them your body,

like punching in a dream,

And only then

did we find the crater of you.

Mark,

they covered you in white roses.

I just thought you should know.