one week
the pain has ebbed
it is no longer a stab wound or a hole in my chest
but a quiet, sinking feeling
the shade of grey before a storm
the bubble of a pool before a tsunami
or the sudden loss when the string snaps
and you look up to see a balloon floating away
one week
and i still think about you every fucking day.
(tell me, atlas:
which is heavier?
the world
or the hearts of its people?)
