Hang the folk-singer in a straight-jacket. Let him out to entertain the pained, and to allow him his vanity of seeing one thousand t-shirted candles echo back to him, his own face.
Let him board the train to nowhere-town. Give him time to walk a recovery, to indulge in a sorrow that was too often left ignored. He'll come back with a black eye, cradle and all.
Kiss your divorce on the mouth, as you filter his coffee. You're coming out of your shell, and out of the house, you're meeting for coffee again, in the sun-glass shade of the afternoon.
Hang your clothes out to dry by the river. Let yourself have a hayfever bout in the grass. Allow your new freedoms from the tyrant, that had long kept you anchored in the past.