On the first day that she’s gone, when I can’t remember why - I summon all the plans I made, I turn face-down the picture frames, I pull her hair from shower drains, I start the car - drive far away and turn home when daylight’s leaving. On the first day that she’s gone I search for sense of meaning. I need to fill a void. I talk to hear a voice. The weeks that passed I can’t recall - I stared through fence at festivals, I grit my teeth, I blame it all, I race to ends of summer sprawl - then winter. Gather up what matters. If I’m holding on too tight, Why won’t the memory shatter? On the first day that she’s gone, a different kind of numb. I see your ghost of catacombs of venues played, of empty homes - I pass your place. I call your phone. I slur some words after the tone and replay all the moments I spent in the softness of your touch, your voice singing in my head. When every day you’re gone maybe I’ll believe it - In the emptiness of all. In the sounds of children teething.