That's it

It wasn’t when you left that I bled.

But a few days later.

From every corner and mirror of my soul.

The moment I went to write to you,

and I stopped halfway through the wet word.

Not because I didn’t know what to say.

But because I realized

there was no longer anyone to read it.

...

Small, stubborn things remained.

The mark of the cat on my shoulder blade.

That thing you left me the last night we had together.

A poem in crayon

that doesn’t resemble any other, because it cries.

I leave, honestly, space in the bed

without even thinking about it.

...

This, indeed, is torment.

I remember you constantly, without a breath.

I exhale hard, trying to catch air.

And then I remember you again, whole,

from something insignificant.

As if a door opened by accident

and won’t close.

I search for the keys in the enchanted lake.

...

It hurts more than I expected.

There is drama—beginning, middle, end, and climax.

Then this quiet insistence

that you exist deep inside me

without any place left in my life.

...

And sometimes I catch myself

speaking about you in the present tense.

And then I correct myself.

That’s it.