The brilliant sun pierces
straight to my heart
every morning;
it used to embrace me
like an old friend.
But these days, sleep,
that paradise of faraway unconsciousness,
that heaven in which
his face means nothing to me,
caresses me, soothes me--
and with tender arms, I
welcome it gladly.

My eyes bore holes into
distant objects
more frequently than usual.
The hand that grazes my arm
to wake me
feels like ice

(because it is not his.)

Another piece of me recedes.
I can feel my bones, meat, skin
thinning
unraveling

like thread.


Everything feels like ice.
The grave must feel like fire.