When the love dies
there’s this miasma which burns
from a broken heart –
The grief manifests itself in many
forms & fashions unbecoming, yet
all the while, the ghost hovers…
haunting us day & night, our every move like a ligature bound tight with a mighty grip –
At first we live crippled in the various
stages of psychological babble, yet in fact, our existence is numb, lost in limbo we accept this purgatory before the next transition as wounds begin to fester, bleed, & eventually begin to scab over.
However, I can take things a step further…
Deeper I fall & down the rabbit hole I go –
I lick my wounds and ponder…ruminate
searching for answers
over & over,
a vicious cycle –
WHERE does the love go to die?
I allow myself a ridiculous amount
of time to wallow in this
silent triage, embraced by the delicious melancholy &
exquisite torture I so desire –
In darkness I pick at the already picked over scabs, then whether it be from shear exhaustion or the sounds of solace I discover in the silence
I can sleep.
With a start, I’m awakened at daybreak from this “love death coma”
aphonia afflicted & drunk from sleep
I feel somewhat bound
and gagged by a strange lump
stuck in my craw – bitter & sour, its taste reminds me of spoiled milk –
I’m rendered to tears as I attempt
to rid this toxin – choking, coughing up years of self-inflicted memories, manipulation, past lives, & broken promises –
I’m left breathless & struggle to
come up for air, yet this is the time…this is my time to exorcise the ghosts – time to purge, cleanse, & live open to possibility & opportunity to love again.