Sunday night.

June Twenty, Three Days After by Miller Williams is a poem that gave me pause as soon as I came across it, but it wasn't a poem I fully understood, not at first. I knew the weight of the last two lines, how they carried the feeling of grief and loss - the persistence of someone's memory hunting after you and laying down in bed with you - and the rest of it was suitably poetic without me grasping it.

Then I read it again, and went back to the beginning, and it hit me how perfectly the poem captured what it feels like to have lost someone.

I'd commissioned a James Marsters reading of it because I knew it'd be a beautiful thing to listen to, and after listening to him read it, I know it's something I'll go back to for comfort - to hear something about death given a life.