Everyday since then…

You’ve died in small pieces.

Fragments of yourself,

disconnected, no longer

accountable.  They are

independent, astray—

Painful pockets of time:

In earth’s growth,

a dream of childhood,

a cat’s narrow eye sneaking through,

a lover’s memory,

and a day gone by.

Everyday since then…

Numb, like a jaw on Novocain,

knowing the wearing off

does come, and like a sock in the mouth,

you awaken harshly to feeling every sting,

pinch, pull that you went through.

The search for what was taken,

what you let go of, who was and wasn’t,

and worse is almost…

Almost is dead hope.

The times you swear were simpler,

happy, they get away, further.

Everyday since then…

You see more clearly,

even with your eyes willingly closed:

There, the past, what’s to come?

But we can’t hold onto now,

we won’t it’s so punishing!

No man or woman can tolerate

staying within their broken heart

any length of time.

We break into illusions,

feed our souls with temporary medicine:

poisonous people and habits.

Scream wretchedly to heaven: Save us!

Other pieces come to life,

born from mistakes, and make beautiful

art, kiss sweet lips, find new friends.

We’re up high and growing,

down and falling.

But it doesn’t stop—

Everyday since then…

I’ve been with you, alone, trying

to put the pieces back together,

of me, how, when, you, tomorrow, today,

all with the promise of waking up fully alive once again.

©2012 Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte