Incomplete

On the floor are pools of dismay
as I gather the right words to say.
Under the bed are pictures to share
of times when you were still there.

Inside the closet remains your black coat
and inside the pocket; the letter you wrote.
Behind my eyelids lie wittinesses so scared
of the horrific troubles each eye had shared.

Around my wrist is the bracelet you wore,
the green one that fell off going out the door.
Inside the living room is the game we played
along with your unfinished bottle of Gatorade.

Your unfinished homework I turned in
and the band teacher gave me your violin.
A picture of me in your wallet was found.
Framing my face was a heart drawn around.

Hit by a car on Sunday afternoon.
I never thought you'd die so soon.
Arms crossed in your coffin you sleep.
You're gone, but your memory I keep.