For more than three full days I stayed within
the house, from heat and lack of plans, in shade.
I didn’t look in mirrors, and the din
of unshod feet is all the noise I made.
I cleaned the place. I watered clothes and yard.
I felt instead of thought. It’s my belief
those leaking eyes, the chest constricted hard,
were potent indicators of my grief.

For more than three full years I was his friend.
I tried with acts and words to make that clear.
But he preferred to disinterpret me.
No matter what I signaled, he’d pretend
was love. He wouldn’t notice, didn’t hear.
I mourn the death of possibility.