My room is dark,
except for the glow pouring in
from the full Harvest moon.
The power’s out on the block.
I haul deeply from my self rolled joint,
exhaling thick grey plumes
through the second floor window screen.
Pink Floyd’s album The Wall is blaring —
loud enough for any neighbor
who wants to listen.
Tears roll down my cheeks.
My left palm smears new tears
into the old ones
that dried and crusted hours ago.
The lights flicker,
then come back on.
But the only thing on my mind
is him.
To be snuggled up beside the man I love.
To feel his warmth.
To not be alone in this lockdown
that’s driving me insane —
no one to talk to,
no one to reassure me I’m normal,
no one to remind me
this is temporary,
that eventually
it’s all going to be okay.
My head spins out of control.
It feels like it would be easier
to end the torture
than to keep living in the not knowing —
not knowing when I’ll see him
live and in the flesh again.
We need to talk.
We need serious conversations.
But he never wants to talk,
never wants to go deep.
So where am I supposed to turn?
Help me, please,
because from where I’m standing
everything has changed.
It’s obvious.
It’s not like it used to be.
My heart —
I reinvested it
when you asked me
to be your wife.
But the trust I had
was instantly shattered.
Things will never be the same.
How am I supposed to go on
knowing that when I wasn’t there,
you weren’t sorry?
You lied.
You hoped I’d never find out
that you’d given her the key
to come and go
any
fucking
time
she
pleased.
How do I go on
knowing you did that
while I wasn’t around.
