I’m sick of grieving you, phantom man. And yet, you are not dead, but still alive,
Walking this very earth, your feet still full of motion, your legs still carrying you,
To another woman, another country, to another anything but to me.
Just yesterday you arrived at my house, waited for me while I brought the dogs home in the rain,
Sat there at the table with a cup of tea in hand,
Still wanting, still needing me. Still a ghost, a spectre in my kitchen.
My reality has become torturous loving insanity,
And yet it was I who took the axe and severed you from me,
I who broke these cords of suckered love.
Now I swallow you whole, take down this black medicine and let it destroy me,
Because if this is all I am then let me die now.