I think the saddest thing I’ve ever known
was consciously allowing myself to love less
after each time I’ve had my heart broken.
But even sadder
is how the passion that once had throbbed
through the marrow of my bones seeped
out of my skin,
evaporated out of my pores,
and disintegrated into the
soft summer breeze.
It escaped before I was even aware of it.
As if through my mourning, my love
had quit on me.
I picture my (now fleeted) love whipping
middle-aged women in the faces
(who feel like me, now – detached)
and suddenly, even if for just a moment,
they are alive.
Yet even sadder than this
is how I watched this happen.
I let my favorite part about myself
from the tiny spaces between the vertebrae
of my spine – my foundation.
It was knowing and feeling my love leave my body
that slowly started suffocating me.
That very specific feeling of being
separate from yourself –
like watching yourself as if your body has
become your shadow
and it lurks, and drudges on
like thick, damp cement running
I think the real ache comes from the realization
of the atrophy itself
and watching it slowly die,
and worrying that, like people,
the feeling won’t allow itself to come back.
Every time I look myself in the eyes
I fear I’ve quit on myself, and that
I am the only person
who can see and feel
And I’ve realized,
is the poorest I’ve ever been.