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