Losing Checkers

My mind is a conch shell,
filled to the brim with voices;
it collects echoes and laughter
and I can still hear your voice
even though it's been a year since
you traded your hat collection
for thick rope
and a tombstone.

Sometimes when I miss the tilt of your grin
I sit in my closet, cloaked in blankets as
my conch shell replays the ocean within your lungs
I swear I can hear you, still trying to convince me
to join the rugby team
despite my false knees.

While I may be a baptized atheist,
I like picture you infecting everyone
living behind Heaven's gates
with your endless optimism because
you give me a reason to believe and

God, I want to believe so badly,

that there is place
where you're sorry that
you sold your heart to Death
and took mine with you.

I want to believe you've found
a new friend to plays checkers with
and when I join you, I'll play too
even though I always lose,
I'll join happily because losing checkers
is nothing compared to losing you.