Goodness, interrupted.

Sadness is the perfect sentence disappearing the moment you settle to write and the woman telling

you not to let your dog lick your wounds, for in one case it led to infection

and later a gruesome leg amputation. Sadness is the hatred you feel

 with every bite of passion. Sadness is not knowing.

It’s failing to recognize wonder

Seeing only fog reflect back at you

Sadness is a poem read by no one

The inability to ever capture that word

Too much, not enough, silence

Working three months on a paper no one thinks about

Her mail still forwarding to your house precisely three years since she’s been gone.

Guilt in every chamber of your heart

Only in healthy doses, of course

Undeserved thank you’s

The helplessness of addiction

The futility of connection

It’s dissection

Of a soul.

But what are we, without a split?

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