“The healing process will take some time.
Take two of these, only when the pain
Grows to be more than you can handle
On your own. It will get easier.”
Flesh, held together by artifice
Begins slowly to knit. Then itching
Starts, and does not care at all to stop.
Memories like scabs, at first are picked
Unconsiously, while itching remains
A constant reminder of the scar
Which has yet to materialise.
The phantom limb pain of your absence,
Which first I masked with pills and whisky,
Anything which would bring me to numb
Oblivion, must be felt in full
If I am to bring myself to health.
Cascading through photographs and words
Which still ring in my ears, an orgy
Of campanologists in full swing,
Though deafening silence remains where
Once I heard your voice so clear and pure;
Is an itch I cannot help but scratch.
If I had held you tighter, would you
Have joined with me completely, then
Perhaps this flesh would still be bonded?
Though undoubtedly you would have pulled,
Struggled free from the intensity
Of my embrace, breaking more than bones
In your flight from my unstoppable
Need for you. Therefore I am grateful
That you chose the scalpel, severing
Arteries as you excised yourself;
Leaving me capable of healing.
I do not want to identify
With the pain, which pulses according
To actions of the day and season,
But yet cannot bring myself to let
The scars heal in full, for the itching
Reminds me how wonderful it felt
To be so loved by you, even if
Only for those long days of summer.