I stay busy
so I don’t think of 
your empty touches,
your silence.

I fill my time
to learn what
healthy means.

There are some mornings
I turn off my alarm
because I can’t
sustain the busyness.

I succumb to thoughts of you
and I think of how to
be busy again.


If that was our last embrace,
I wish I held you
breathed in your scent
felt your skin against mine.

I would have gotten
out of my head 
and into
the last moment
with you.

Let go

I understand the notion of letting you go
but theory doesn’t release
the tension in my chest
the way I look for you in videos
my friends post.

I understand
the necessity of leaving
and there’s a difference
between a physical separation
and the emotional untangling
of wanting and needing.

And when they say your name
I’ll lean in
to hear you in their voices
to see you in their eyes.

I won’t ask about you;
I’ll listen for news
I’ll think of you
until the wanting
no longer feels as good
as the idea of you.

What’s its shape

“How’ve you been?” 

A dull stab to a stubborn wound. 
I share that 12 hours of my day are fulfilling.

I work,
I problem solve,
I learn.

I withhold the rest of it.
The aimless hours
on the could have beens
the losses.

It's when I'm alone the fear spreads.
Most days the void is tangible.
It’s shapeless.
I want to label it to know it fully.
I’d know its name and greet it warmly.

Loss spreads.
Grief grows.

I think too often of the last conversation.
The ending.
And when it all feels too deeply rooted
I'm reminded  
that the anxiety will find 
a different power source.
The sadness will attach to something new.

I begin to make peace with the idea
that I can still have you
in sadness and grief.
In honoring the memories.

And so I'll wait 
for the days in which
my heart feels less a part of your own.
When I stop visualizing
moving in unison.

Until then, they'll ask,

“How are you?”

“I’m doing great, thanks for asking,”

My heart,
my heart though.
My heart won’t know it’s own shape for some time.