read this first.

i think it's
the cruelest thing
to inflate with joy
at the thought of him
to look around,
see he's not there
and ask,
"how's my son?"
to see them
not meet my eyes
hear them stutter:
"he's dead."
to tell them i'm sorry but
i didn't hear you
could've sworn you said...
and then,
for the seven hundred
and seventy seventh time,
feel the air
from my lungs escape
feel dread encase
my chillbumped skin
feel my knees give out
and the floor come up
feel the inevitable howl
start in my bones
and work its way up
until my body's filled
with horrific sound
and what comes out my mouth
is only part
of what is ripped away from me.