Apples are hard to eat now.

Bread too and other things,  

aggravate.

Loss no longer devastates;

imperfections no longer force me
into cessation—
breath, existence, love
and if I could try again.
Loss no longer floors me.
Suffused with grief,
time brings turning,
the locket hanging back on the mantle
front and center,  I don’t
have the letters but my head
without caffeine remembers and
maturation.
What I’ve always needed:
the deepest place I can go is
completely still.
Still, you don’t mean a thing to me,
nothing means a thing to me.

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