I was in the elevator at work, thinking about how you could get me out of:
a boring get-together
or dealing with a fool
or when I was getting cranky
by telling the assembled crowd, “I have to get Mr. Bollinger home, he has a long day tomorrow.”
Sometimes life is so simple, so easy to face.
Sometimes life is misunderstanding, like watching Japanese television commercials
abrupt and loud and disorienting –
graphics and images and things that seem like tokens from a dream
I thought I had prepared myself for the distress of your passing.
Like how words feel when you read them, versus how they feel when you say them
I thought that your death would leave me alone.
But here I am alone. You, you still are everywhere. You are still with me.
When I think of you I see the totality of you –
your eyes your face your scent your being your soul.
The shower in the morning becomes a monk’s cell of three fiberglass walls and a frosted glass door
where instead of fervent prayer
I speak to you about the dreams where you visit me for kisses.
Where I tell you how my body has started to change for the better, how horny I am all of the time
and how badly I need a woman like you to hold and touch and talk to
How you spoiled me with your power, how you ruined me with your power
and how now I am learning to accept alone as more than loneliness.