My Juliet; 5 : 1

Poet, barely conscious, steeps in guilt

And pickled in some kind of alcohol,

Surrounded by the life that they had built,

A stack of empties leaned against the wall.

Her absence still hangs heavy in the air;

Such sorrow in the three months she's been gone,

Waking in the night, hoping she's there,

Forgetting that she's lost to the beyond.

The hospital sent home her box of things;

It sits upon the counter, growing dust,

He cannot bear it-- he's not strong enough,

He will not open it until he must.

Ignoring both his email and his phone,

He lies there drinking, empty and alone.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2015.