Hemingway said,
"Write hard and clear about what hurts."

And I'm hurting.
And it's muddled.
And it's clear all at once.

But I know this:
It hurts hard.

When part of your heart
Up and leaves-
Even when you know that it's coming-
It hurts like part of your heart was up
And cut out.

It hurts like when you get home
And you run in-
And no one's there to greet you.

It hurts like when you sit at home-
And the piano keys are dusty.

It hurts and it's deafening
And deadening-
And the silence is overwhelming.

It hurts like a coffee *** that doesn't get empty,
And a grocery bill that goes down.

It hurts like unworn shoes in a closet
And it hurts like unwashed sheets
On an unused bed.

It hurts like borrowing his clothes
And reading his books
And writing him letters.

It hurts hard
And clear
And muddled
All at once.

It hurts like goodbye.