I know they’re right,
it’s already begun.
The bindings of blind preoccupation
are loosening their grip.
I feel the minutes stretch into hours, stretch into days,
between thoughts of him.
The dead space where I forget to remember.
Thoughts that once weighed heavy and oppressive,
forcing the air from my lungs,
taking everything I had to
keep on breathing,
– thoughts that now float like wisps of mist,
melt away with the first warmth of day.
The memory of his fingers against my ribs;
his kisses all teeth and urgency
are far beyond my reach, in that
there is no distinction now between
what was real and what was a dream.
I’m adrift among a sea of washed-out,
faded, photographed moments.
Moments, I am sure,
were the only seconds I ever lived.
Yet losing him was easy.
I had an empty bell-jar of a heart
to fill up with collected, broken pieces
Memories so vivid and raw,
that I still knew how desire smelled on his skin;
I could feel the words he washed me in;
still knew the colour of every touch.
I was consumed. I surrendered.
even if only to a ghost
of what was,
and what might have been.
But full of pitying looks and empty reassurance
they tell me
I’ll get over it;
get past him;
What makes them think I ever want to?
They use these words as if sticking plasters for
my tattered heart,
yet my broken pieces are the only thing holding
Yes, losing him was easy:
the worst is yet to come.
I am afraid of healed wounds,
when the pain is too distant to still recall,
when, I think of him,
and the most
I can feel
Soon it will all be gone,
never to be known again.
No, moving on is not for me.
I would sooner drown in the agony of losing him,
than ever forget why I hurt.