For Years to Come

I miss you, and it hurts-
like a thousand knives and pens stabbing into wounds,
salt in the punctured casing of my bruised beaten down heart,
and I didn't even know you could cut stone,
but there are pieces of my soul scattered on the
asphalt of my driveway,
little pieces of granite and limestone,
pebbles and stones crumbling at my feet as I
drag my empty carcass up the front steps and onto the front porch,
knocking on the door, knobby knees hitting the floor,
I don't even remember turning my key into the lock,
but I must have,perhaps its just that my nerves don't send messages to my limbs anymore,
and my heart quit pumping blood to my organs a few miles back
while I was driving home from your house,
and I don't remember what happened,or where you went,
or why I'm alone.
I just know that I'm sitting in impenetrable darkness
just a small immobile lump under a mountain of down quilts and covers,
bleeding all over the best rugs,
I'm hoping that if I keep my dreams in my best coffee mug
I can sip them all back down one by one
in the morning, to wake me up from my its-a hard-knock-life-for-us hangover,
or maybe I'll drink some bitter tea of shattered memories,
but maybe, oh maybe, I just won't ever move, won't ever wake up,
and that's when I think that for years to come,
this is what missing you,
still loving you,
will always feel like.

The End

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