Fists pounding against the
Fateful punching bag of
Wordcraft.
Ink on knuckles.
First morning waking up
Alone; face down in
Her pillow that
Still grasps strands of her hair,

And her scent.
I have anchored smiles to the
Stabs that come
When standing in a moment
Next to her fresh absence, not
Holding her hand.

Now I grin into the
Woman shaped vacuum
That follows me like Peter Pan's
Shadow reattached, and
Put my feet on the floor of this
Museum to our every
Yesterday.

I am a very big boy.
I don't have time for self-pity
And longing.
I'll cry a little. Miss a little.
Tear myself apart with little
Reminders, but no more.

I'll be on my own.
Pick a flower or two along the way,
Just to rest my soul upon
Female skin; as poet and artist
More than man.
My eyes keep moving
Upwards; forwards, looking for
Mountains, hungrily.
There's more to Life
Than Love.

I stand alone, rebuilt, enforced.
Sverre 2.0.
An army of one; with a world of
Reinforcements
Standing by for support
If needed.

Fish in the sea like stars or
Grains of sand.
Let the streets be galleries
Where I can smile back at
Women watching with soft eyes,
Without feeling the least
Bit guilty.

-

I rest my head against the
Punching bag, sweaty and done.
Outside, the winds from the south
Play with trees that sing of
Serenity, solitude, silence and
Soul. Proving that
I belong right here. And that
She once did, but
Doesn't.