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.
.
