he Left

I wake,
black eyelashes fluttering in the cold winter air
its movement resembling that of a fine,
sable brush dipped in charcoal watercolors
to assert its presence on the stark white canvas.
I inhale and exhale,
translucent smoke evaporating,
every breath the catalyst of pain like
flesh burning on hot coals,
each step taken toward Nirvana
becoming more laborious but
numbed by each sear, each branded heel.
I place my bony, bruise ridden legs on the
dirty carpet, surrendering to the monotony—
brush cavity-filled teeth,
comb through fine, tangled hair,
swallow thirty bland pills;
the semblance of normalcy.

Last night I had entertained thoughts of him,
had even thought to capitalize the “H”
but sitting in front of the physician,
words dripping from his mouth like
saliva from a rabid dog that said:
I have bad news,
in these four words,
dreams, utterly utopian,
disintegrated, crumbling like an ancient civilization,
where all that can be unearthed in the rubble of me—
tourniquets, latex-free gloves,
a few teardrops, blood, vomit,
but should you scavenge in this debris
for sustenance in the form of
a Harvard diploma, the scroll
held together by a blue ribbon that
unravels itself to tightly wrap around
a desk with my name inscribed upon it,
you would find yourself inevitably famished,
your ribs and stomach protruding from
malnutrition, your sole meal an
assortment of tablets, lozenges,
syrups and capsules.

And this following morning
filled with breathing, eating, placing
one jaundice-like limb in front of the other,
hearing the drone of the furnace,
and the neighbor’s canine,
perfectly mundane in appearance,
but if you were to strap on those latex-free gloves,
equipped with a surgical knife and
open me up, you would see
that I am devoid of him.
I went to bed with him last night,
holding his hand like that of a lover’s,
only to find that he left me this morning.