Sometimes saying goodbye to someone
doesn't nearly hurt as much
as saying goodbye to the version of you
that existed alongside them.

Wrote your name on another bridge today,
the second one since I left a month ago.
In another world, maybe,
I keep doing this until I die.
In another world, perhaps,
you do the same with mine.

I cried today,
at work,
in the bathroom,
alone.

I left early.
The thoughts,
the sorrow,
the pain.

I bawled in my car
silently,
as soon as I shut
the door.

The engine kicks,
and you
move
on.

Loving you
Is like drowning
Reaching for the brim
Waiting for you to help me
Instead of learning how to swim

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

We used to climb
Stairs of light together
I've done a lot of dying
Since you left
A lot of living too