the house is too large with not enough people,
an empty space, a skeleton of something.
you keep running into the ghost of your dead dog
and the memory of your father in another country.
there are too many people to miss.

the apartment is too full and far away to be called yours,
only a temporary safehouse,
and a place of only work and sleep
cannot be called a home.

you do not want to be lonely
but you cannot wait to be alone,
and so you do not belong anywhere.

i am still waiting
for you to haunt me;

i am still hoping
that i dream of you tonight;

i am still thinking
that it is all temporary;

i am still wondering,
when will you return?

(no,
i know it is for the worst,
but i cannot yet believe
that you are gone.)

On the days I forget how to feel,
I lose my fingers in my dog’s soft fur
and allow myself to hold him.
His hug, the way he presses his nose into my hand,
nips at my fingers,
is softer than a human’s.
This strange wonderful creature,
sharp teeth and beating heart and simple mind that he is,
I think he will save my life.

Tonight is easy, I realize,
and I am relieved.
Tonight the heart is light,
beats a steady rhythm;
tonight the lungs breathe easy,
take in air like it is just that: air,
not water seeking to drown me.
It is fun to write about:
the lack of relapse.
It is fun to reminisce:
the easiness of a smile.

There will be worse nights,
but this night will be separate.
I will give it a space of its own.
Tonight was different; tonight was rare.
Tonight, I think,
was kind.
Tonight was fun.

so easy, the idea of giving up!
so near, the thought of it!
to think of not writing anymore,
to hush this voice of mine,
to throw away the goal,
to let it all fall down around me.
so easy, so there.
to let the resistance crumble—
an option so real, how very simple.
how in my reach.

someone asks me for help with work,
and there is a rush of relief:
if they need help, then my body will stay awake, unsleeping.
we talk ourselves into the night,
and i am pleased—
this way i am not left to my own desires.

come evening i am called to eat,
and this is good, because, you see,
this way my body is made to move,
dragged off the couch, out of bed,
and forced to live.

i know how it works,
that old proverb, see:
they say that if i just get up from the bed
the world will seem brighter to me,
but oh,
how difficult it seems as well,
and the mere idea— how cold.
even the too-bright lights of my bedroom are dull to me,
but i know, i know—
if i just get out of bed,
all may be well again.

and there is a gratefulness for this,
somewhere,
perhaps small but existing anyway—
it is nice,
somehow,
to be kept alive;
these little tedious tasks
that none are free from.

i sigh,
hug the pillows through a shudder,
and rise from the covers.

'i'm tired,'
i say,
and my mother asks me how, and why;
tells me i haven't been doing that much today.
i don't know how to tell her
that the exhaustion goes deeper than bone,
how the weariness takes my heart in its hold,
seeps into my skull
and settles there.

my art is slow, sluggish;
my writing is a dying fire.
my body is a sunken ship upon my bed
half the time.
my lungs do not breathe, only rattle;
and i?
i am simply tired,
tired,
tired.