Preview of Unsaid Six: Walking Alone, by Lauren McCollum

 

I have always written poems to you

and whispered wistful snippets of them

on windswept bridges and unlit streets.

 

You were, at turns, a city, a songbird, a hurricane.

You were a blackout, a living room, a field.

Now you are nothing and no one.

 

You are not the sliver of chill in the autumn air

or the sound of tires on pavement in the night.

You are not even the gravel chafing in my shoe.

 

The black vacuum that yawns in my abdomen

sucked and sucked at you until you were gone.

I felt my liver swell as I metabolized you.

 

But still I long for you.  It is as meaningless

as it is unceasing.  Listen.  I am not well.

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