Meditations on bad breakups.
The impossibility of getting used to
waking up without your letters on my screen
before I let the agitations of the day grip me.
To come to the kitchen and peel little balls of
lamentations for breakfast, and face the silence
of not hearing you asking what kind of coffee I like.
Lover, I must confess,
I can never really relate to your sophistication
when I would willingly shove
all kinds of drinks down my throat,
no matter the stink.
To tear the husk of toxicity like cotton padding
from my solitary couch,
with my late night snacks clouded with oil,
misting out of my pinprick pores.
Clean and sharp as pepper
are all the meals I wished to have shared with you.
To ease each pale, pink section of my chest
without your daily craving,
telling me how you desire my body
with my heart out of its case
so carefully, so lovingly,
without wanting to break
a single pearly cell.
To slide each piece
of hurtful words we exchanged
throughout the months
into a cold blue china bowl,
the juice and tears pooling
until the whole fruit of affection
is divided from its skin
and only then to eat so sweet.
My discipline, precisely pointless.
My devout involvement of hands and senses,
a pause, a little emptiness.
Each day harder to live within me.
Each day harder to live without you.