the bed still smells like his aftershave.
the cup he used is still sitting on the counter.
his clothes still hang in the closet.
you still listen to his voice from
the last message he left.
there are pictures littering the floor.
your friends tell you it’s time to move on.
pack the clothes away—haul them off to goodwill.
let the photo albums collect dust in the
back of the closet. tie up your loss with a neat bow
like it doesn’t exist deep down in your bones.
as if it doesn’t shape every facet of your existence now.
you don’t heal from being halved.
love does not leave a small scar
that will smooth out with time. it leaves a cavern,
jagged with lost hopes and dreams.
that’s what mourning is.
(image by Fleur Treurniet via unsplash)