Embodied Absence
she was to arrive like sunshine.
a form in the doorway,
a suitcase in the corner,
a red thread pulled through
a gray budapest room.
i already wrote the scenes.
coffee.
steam from the baths.
her in my bed.
the city at last opening
like a fist.
instead
she vanished
into silence.
knowing the shrug was a lie,
my body collapsed,
when she was meant to arrive.
chills.
aches.
the hand still half-broken,
four weeks into its own slow mutiny,
and now the rest joined in.
watching old films
on a love seat
in the middle of the day
like a man
divorced from his life.
no sex.
no laughter.
no perfume on the pillow.
just sweat,
shivers,
and a dark ceiling
at 4 a.m.
learning that healing feels
like waste
to a man
who worships motion.
sometimes life sends a lover.
sometimes it sends a fever.
to stop the machine.