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.

.