Forty nights brought no relief

and the same expectation of waiting

for the someone to walk into what was

once

home.

 

It was home for one,

and too big to be so,

and that added to the drama of it all.

 

It had been over three months of

unbearable suffering

unrestrained freedom

and the void,

and nothing changed much,

not at its core.

 

There was a special hatred

reserved for ex-lovers,

and it could be broken down fairly easily

even to the uninitiated whom could not

fully

understand

the feeling of loss.

 

It was a mixture of trusting someone entirely,

having absolute confidence in the Good,

and dreaming enough to believe in Santa Claus,

and coming home to shattered dreams

trampled on a dirty floor with

muddy work boots,

figuring out the Good is some abstraction

unattainable to humans

and seeing the one you love

unzipped themselves to reveal

a serial killer

poltergeist

or android.

 

There was the cheapest

and deepest-cutting

feeling of betrayal and emptiness,

but maybe that wasn't down to you

and maybe that's just

life.