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.