There are two stones on the living room window sill,

I don't remember how they got there;

I suppose I found them somewhere, and their smooth roundness was pleasing to my senses. 

I have always collected things. They hang around, long after their provenance is forgotten: it's a sort of death of its own I suppose: these objects bereft of their meanings become like carcases. 

There are two stones on the living room window sill; I no longer remember from whence they came, nor why I held onto them, but now, I'll keep them nonetheless.  

After all, on their surface may still linger some stray molecules of your living breath.

There were so many plans:

We were going to buy a new bed, one that didn't slope on my side

A wardrobe, and dresser (I have "way too many clothes") 

One day, we'd go on a cruise; I've never been on one before, and you told me how black and impenetrable the night was out at sea

I wanted so badly to one day show you MY Israel, the way you've shown me YOUR New York. 

There was a future, already written

whose pages have now been torn from their spine. 

 You'd even offered to try

Sleeping without tv

In the silent darkness that always scared you

It reminded you of death you'd always told me 

And your frenzied mind wouldn't stop, so you could sleep

But you were willing to try

If only I'd come home

To sleep beside you

Get you your water before bed. 

Lemons

The lemons I'd placed in this bowl have dried out

No longer yellow and soft

The spider plants have all died,  their

Dessicated leaves folded in surrender 

The blue rug lies,

Just where I left it

But the northeast corner, no longer held in place by your exercise chair 

Has flipped over, leaving a 

Right angled ghost

In the dust on the floor. 

This house is a mess

There is chaos everywhere

Fruitflies drown in my bedside water at night

It's cold, 

And the heavy comforter is slowly collecting into a pile on the floor by my side of the bed

No warm body next to me 

To halt this entropy.

I will sit alone on my cold terrasse at my little yellow table and drink my wine 

I will look for patterns on our sidewalk in the fallen yellow gingko leaves

I will walk to the churchyard and talk to the small flowers that bloom only in the winter

And I will continue to ache for you

I will sip my chocolate slowly, holding the warm cup in both my cold hands

I will dive headfirst into De Beauvoir and Bataille

I will enjoy the sting of the cold Fall air in the back of my throat

And I will continue to ache for you

I will get up each morning and weigh myself, marking each increment toward my shifting goal

I will walk our neighbourhood, discovering new things to tell you about

I will date, and I will kiss and I will fuck and I will love, 

And I will continue to ache for you. 

I will seek joy

I will find beauty

I will embrace the malaise that permeates my nights

I will continue to converse with you if only in my own head

And I will forever continue to ache for you.

 I still remember how the skin of your upper arm felt under my tracing fingertips, the way it felt to pass my hand under the sleeve of your t-shirt to touch your cool back.  I remember your scent and the gravity of your body beside me in bed. How, back to back, we'd press the soles of our feet together, sometimes even interlacing toes. 

How this new aloneness is real is beyond my comprehension; I reject it and search for your ghost.

The waking world holds no light for we the grieving 

And so we sleep

And sleep

And sleep 

by whatever means available

And try to dream our missing selves into Lightedness. 

 "Widow":

the word fits like a too tight, comically ridiculous black velvet hat, but it also feels right.  I want the world to know my world has been cracked in half and left bleeding.

I want strangers to be soft with me, waiters and clerks and cashiers to understand and speak gently, make no demands

Because right now, the glue that held me together is gone, and the tiniest bump will shatter me into a million shards.