And on

What is left can not be called living.

There is a colorless, odorless synthesis of shapes and objects I’m supposed to feel connected to.

A set where things move but nothing lives.

The face around my skull was resplendent when savored by your regal taste.

Today, only a misshapen husk hangs here.

I pray for an aneurysm every night. I dream of You, finally I’m home. I wake up.

The grappling hook of your departure slams into my rib cage with the velocity of our promises.

With the speed of my struggling feet it is seduced out to propel me into another boneless day without you.

I’m asked “how are you” and force some socially acceptable dribble to keep others from considering their own im/mortality.