Wake
Up,
You.

The sunlight was a bitter enemy
To eyes clenched shut against
Morning.
Every Morning.

Morning was no longer
The hello He expected,
No longer the
New breath into His lungs
That gave Him wings
And filled His eyes with
Hope for
Her.

(The floor was ugly
Under His feet;
It seems hardwood creaks
When the heart breaks.)

The house was no longer
The haven where He would bring Her,
Love Her,
Laugh with Her,
Smile on Her
And make Her pretty teeth
Show right back.
Now the furniture was made of magma,
Untouchable
Because it was touched
By Her body.

He stumbled out of His hovel—
All drawn shades and skewed sheets—
And fell over in the kitchen.
He gripped hard onto the table
To keep from spilling to the tile.
These days His whole world seemed
To tilt.