I wear the letter L on my glove
like a lie, like an albatross.
I can't wish you well,
can't forgive you,
can't remove the shape of your ghost
from the Sunday morning light
pushing through the curtains,
can't stop imagining you with her,
can't forgive her either,
can't stop missing your friends,
your family, your dog,
can't do anything but overwork myself,
can't stop the dreams, the panic,
the sickeningly wishful thinking.
This is why people kill themselves
after the death of a relationship:
not because they can't live without
a person, but because they can't outrun
or soothe or talk themselves out of
everything after.
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