you would think
by this time at least
it wouldn’t feel
as if someone stabbed
my heart with a
white hot dagger
every time the kids
leave for two weeks
that there would be
a callus that formed
and this callous ache
would be little more
than a phantom tingle

yet here i sit
holding back the
swirling edddys of
primal sorrow
holding it together
one agonizing breath
after another
and it feel as if
the light above has
wavered closer but
my strained lungs
cannot give enough
oxygenated blood
to these dead limbs
and the spots in
my vision connect to
show abject despair
instead of breaking
to the beckoning air
i hear shovelfuls of
loose soil slapping
against the cheap
lid of my cardboard
coffin as darkness
curls tight to ny chest