You get up as usual
Head for the shower.
You run into the door
on the way, your new
nemesis and marvel
that you’re the one
coming unhinged,
no matter how
many time you
try to pour
yourself in a
bottle of Valium.

You reflect on life
and wonder where
sex went. When did
did poetry turn into
a slasher film? Beauty
being chased by horror.
Stanzas hanging out
with metaphors, and
alliteration, munching
on popcorn, giving
you a sympathetic stare

Keats always makes
you cry and seeing
the sweater he left
behind. You can still
smell his cologne.
It’s fragrant in this
lonely sky of isolation.

You reflect on a litany
of things lost, a canon
of regret. The past, an
inheritance or curse to
be claimed. You think
grief is blue, reflecting
on Goethe and his
Theory of Colors.

You try and put
together a new
ceiling fan, the one
he was suppose to
assemble, before he
finally stopped
oscillating and left
you behind. He was
always a sucker for
your silly humor.

You scream in
frustration, and
throw the wrench
across the room.
The newlyweds
next door have
been hammering
for hours.

-Tosha Michelle