I couldn’t sleep,
I spent my years adding hollowness to the chest-hole you left behind.
“It will heal,” the physician said.
“Phantom Heartaches aren’t chronic.
Rub some Distance on the wound.
Take one and a half Time pills before dark.”
Distance didn’t work.
Time tumored around thoughts of your hands on my skin.
My wound was infected by loneliness;
it oozed memories,
and it throbbed like the day you ripped happiness out of my loins.
“Here is a new one.”
The physician eased the replacement heart,
gently tearing into flesh you forever claimed.
It did look perfect; undeniably
but I wasn’t feeling it.
but felt nothing
in the places where you had been.
“You can’t die from not feeling,” the physician said.
“Neither can I live,” I told him. And walked out; chest holed anew; bleeding of you.
for Poets United (Poetry Pantry #239)
The End of Heartache, by Craig Mackay