I don’t remember the sound
of your voice
your photograph stares
back at me and
reminds me of what
you must have looked like
but every year
you seem less real to me
like some dream-image
floating up from
the darkness of my childhood and
when I speak your name
I struggle with meaning
as if I truly believe
you never existed and
it was me who
conjured you
up from the dust
and there’s nothing for which
I need to be forgiven