what its like is
a hole
or
the lack of a place where
he, someone who was both
sacred/small
and once had been
of my life
someone who meant
something so huge
but, now no longer is
at times, not fully aware,
behind my reading glasses,
the ache inserts itself
like a phantom limb
tears fall
tattooing my face
with their etching cascade
everywhere I see
more holes
un-subtle reminders
a collection of absences
where once his small space filled me in
what happens now?
will my heart disappear?
where do I move on to?
left here
I'm somewhere
where, I don't really know
wondering
wandering
where did he go?
will I fall into his holes?
at the strike of
two a.m.
I often hear his tattered breathing
my right hand reaches out
for air
describe,
he instructs me,
as he chitters in my ear
in his invisible language,
write me out
and then I take up my pen
I write
until I crumple
into a worried sleep
and dream of
how he and I used to be.
Copyright September 17, 2016 All Legal Rights Are Reserved
By This Author for this WORK/ THIS SITE TITLE
Melissa A Howells/Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World
