Glued in Passing by Alex Greenberg

When you die and the white light falls
to a fitted shroud around us,
I will drape pictures of you
long into the morning. When I return,
you will be waiting in every room,
eager to greet, real enough
to smile. Fingers stuttering my name,
eyes held in their same blue squint.
Soon the lights sail off;
an empty rescue boat above glistening bodies,
a journey dulled with experience, the waves
and tides marked and understood, I feel your death
flush back into me.
The boat coasts forward,
rattling over the spot you died, steadying
over the irradiated plane. I swim back for you,
one hand pushing through crowds of people,
the other gripped on survival.