It grieves my heart,
that ink ambrosia loss
of forsaken affection,
that weary winter soul
woven in a spider web
that the leaver’s spin.

Chest tied
in flagpole knots
false flapping fabric
that symbolizes
a love that turns out
to no one surprise
to be a self-deluded lie.

So, I should just swallow
that chalky pill,
that bad medicine made
to make me not feel
anything but numbly ill.

I am neither
brave nor coward enough
to dim my muscle of love.
Instead, I face a war
of attrition,
a strange painful mission
of moving towards
a hopeful future
despite my persisting losses.