First, the sleep goes. It abandons you to
heartsickness that has no stint.
And all becomes blurry and the days run
together and there are echoes of echoes of echoes
of the voice silenced, the footfalls never to be
heard again; the face already altered
by loss and memory and you wonder:
Is that how he really looked? Was that really his
voice? Was that really the sound of his step
in the hall? Did he really always laugh at that joke?
And then, your hair falls out in great clumps,
and you hardly miss it at all,
there is only shock of losing it. And you think:
Take it. There’s nothing left anyway, so I will not miss this.
And well-meaning friends who quote such cliches
as “Time heals all wounds” will reassure you that
it will grow back again.
