I woke up to grey today.
It's windy and bitter and stale.
And I feel light as an anorexic feather
and heavy as a binge eating stone.

The sun used to shine in September and October.
It would spread a warm feeling across my back,
a nice break from the fresh, sharp fall air.
The sun doesn't shine much in the month of November.

The sun doesn't shine and I wish you were gone.
You hold me in your warmth and I wish you were gone.
You trace the contours of my face and I feel the trembling of your heart
and I wish you were gone.
I'm writing this poem and you're asleep in your room and I wish you were gone.

Because you make me bleed by trying to heal me
and the blood drips like tears on letters returned to sender.
A stained wedding dress infects my mind and suddenly
I have the urge to rip it to shreds, only to stitch it back together again.
(The internal conflict between staring into eternity or evaluating glass).

I hold your hand and I touch your lips and I tell you I'm glad that you're here
but I wish you were gone.