Tiny bits and pieces of you—
objects laden with memories of us,
random scents that dig up the past
(the pungent sweet stink of sweat
in the bedsheets from our lovemaking
or the sticky fruit-smell of your shampoo)—
still lie around the house,
waiting for me to find them,
waiting to renew my hurt.

A hair of you finds its way
into my hands, clinging to my shirt
(even as you used to cling to my arm),
longing to be
teased, pulled to the limits and broken,
having no living soul attached
to heal it, renew it, and keep its ends
from splitting.

I read C. S. Lewis today.
The apologist-turned-prophet
saw my day and told me
that losing you is like losing a limb,
that losing you is a sickness that accompanies
a kick to the groin.
Prosthesis must play the wallflower,
for only a robust, living organ can pump
vitus nectar to the farthest reaches
of my Self.