It's different. This time,

I don't wait for the healing

to happen gradually, don't wait

for your things, the things

you left,

to find their places.

I sweep them away,

sweep you away

because it cannot be that you are here

and not-here. I already feel the dull heavy confusion,

the part of me that is you


life after is awkward

limbs that lie

uncooperative in bed and the apartment

an alien landscape, feeling foreign

I don't speak the language

of loss.

The End

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