i follow
the eight five three
rule of sleep
since the end
of all i held dear
eight hours in bed
five staring at the ceiling
replaying
a greatest hits package
that ends in tears
three hours
of broken sleep
punctuated
by waking
with her name
on my lips
rinse and repeat
every night
for a week straight
now i know
what is worse
than
the headaches and shoulder
and the constant aches
it is that moment of waking
hoping
the new reality
is the bad dream
that she
is still there
then the cold clarity
of her absence
in that moment
being
shattered again
fresh and horrific
as it paints the day
in loss
the brief instance
of being a stone
before being tossed
into the water