How long do you stay in love with a dead thing?
It doesn’t speak. It does not take my name. It does not stir night or day.
I say my I love yous into the void. I send missives that land with a weary thud on the doormat in a house unopened for three full moons.
People are busy. Lives are full but they are not filled with me. I am never busy enough for love. Waiting on the hard wooden train station bench, I think, today I will be remembered.
How long do you stay beside a dead thing before you put it away for good?
They say it is for good. Where is the good in any of the things we label, “loss”? There are other labels: lost again, missing, never coming back. Lost for good.
Where is the good in what we lose?
Years I stayed beside my Frankenstein love. Part alive, part undead. She comes and goes – not even the wind knows which way she will turn next. I write my words, I make poetry of pain like I would bread from dough of heartbreak.
The train will not come today. I stand up and take myself home.