It's different. This time,
I don't wait for the healing
to happen gradually, don't wait
for your things, the things
you left,
to find their places.
I sweep them away,
sweep you away
because it cannot be that you are here
and not-here. I already feel the dull heavy confusion,
the part of me that is you
amputated.
life after is awkward
limbs that lie
uncooperative in bed and the apartment
an alien landscape, feeling foreign
I don't speak the language
of loss.
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