See? I'm dealing with it in my own way.
Message R9K
Tell him I go weeks
without the thought of his face.
I am able to forget the existence
of someone who for so long
held my blood red heart
in his guitar calloused fingers.
I focus on Marie Howe's
"What the Living Do."
I lug the trash to the corner,
fold my wrinkled laundry,
wash the eight glasses of water
left randomly in each room
(He always hated that.
I can hear him now:
"Can't you keep up with one glass?"
NO!)
Tell him I do fine
until I catch myself shoving
an empty pizza box under
the trash can
or breaking the white shell
of an egg only to return
the shards to the crate
the way he did.
I keep the swispers under
the sink for him even though
I know he will never touch
their round cotton ends.
Tell him it's like a death, but worse
because he lives on without me
by choice as if I am someone forgettable,
as if he was the only one who gave up dreams,
the only one who deserved happiness.
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