Sunday, January 3, 2016

The box

you who weigh heavy in this box, a mound, bits
of rock, consecrated chards: today i am done with you. 
i am done writing about you. 
i am done talking about you. 
my jaws ache from talking about you. 
i am done looking at you. 
my hands cramp from looking at your photos, 

from packing up your things. 
i am done thinking about you. 
thinking about you raises 
my blood pressure. thinking about you 
slows my breath, 
thinking about you 
winds me up into a knot. 
And writing no longer releases. 
it's always about loss, always this disintegration, 
always this end, never
about touching, never about hope, never resurrection:
because footprints melt with the snow--
that’s what I know.

How many different ways can i tell you 
how sorry i feel? but this life without you 
will be lived. 
i will not jump off the golden gate. 
i will not overdose 
on ativan. 
you will be the train that roars out 
of this station into the end of this world 
and i will join you but not today; 
today your whistle will blow more faint, 
its scream will fade far from this room. 
this is relief. this is what i need. 
because i am exhausted. 
because my tear ducts have dried up. 
because i need to sleep a whole night. 
because i need to eat. 
because I cannot go on like this,
filled to the brim with fright and rue, 
with dread, because it only gets worse
if I let it.


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