In her dreams she says ssshhh! as if she could hear the
chaos of my maudlin heart cantillating his name. I have a book-
The Time Traveller’s Wife, its bone pressed against my chest
as I lay. Pure poetry. It draws a clear map to the remote parts of
my soul, the deepest ones. It talks about loss so vividly, fearlessly.
About people you love disappearing, dissipating into time
and all you can do is caress the air- all that’s left of them-of him.
When mother looks at me, she feels I am having nightmares
so she puts sugar in a pouch under my pillow. It’s 3:07 am,
I go to the washroom and fill the tub till its neck. I’m stark naked
now, but no I am not going to bathe. I instead put shards
of my soul, small ones first and mix it in the tub, caressing its
slippery floor. And I pull out the drain, see my reflection in the
whirlpool for the last time with a blank visage and whatever little
that’s left of my soul- just what is left of the book to be read-
Just what is left of love within me, just what is left of him.