Why doesn't he talk to me?
Does time pass slower in France?
Or does he forget to remember me

What do I do?
Time does not pass slow here
One faltering minute over minute
Sleep evades me. I am unoriginal
In this saturation of pain
All rhyme, flow, rhythm, quirk
I can say nothing. I weep
Generously.
I try to be kind to myself
I dance to routine, to responsibility
I try to draw. I cannot paint.
I try to be kind to myself
Everyday, everyday, everyday, the same
Old stubborn silence, and this nauseating
Love and this this pain that breaks me

Little chip at a time

How do I tell you, man
That what I felt was good and gentle
That I gave without doubt, that I -
That when the grief comes
It comes without restraint and it
Constitutes me wholly. And I weep
Horribly into my hands
And wipe my eyes like a child

And when I am done and tired,
I am yearning still.

I wish he were kinder to me.