on autoimmune diseases and black tides and the way the mind attacks itself in the wee hours of the morning when the bed is too empty

It’s hard to explain it, how

five years ago is behind me and yet

still laps over the present, a shimmering black

wave, receding and washing forward again

up on the silver sands of my mind.

It’s hard to explain how then morphs

into now, how

the band on my finger tells me

my lover is never leaving and yet when I wake

in the early hours of the morning and

the bed beside me is empty, only

rumpled blankets and sleeping dog

my heart races backward to the 1000 plus nights

when I waited for him

to call, to text, to meet me in the field

under the moon or to simply walk by

and I was left in the dark, afraid.

Despite the pictures on the walls, your smile

moving in my phone I’m afraid

I made it all up. Made it all up and

no one is ever coming back for me.

Somehow, curled into my pillow

that feels more true.

The wave laps higher up the beach

and it’s hard to explain why the depression

has returned, why the anxiety still

squeezes my throat when it’s not all about

him anymore–at least, not exactly.

Not exactly about him but it is exactly about

all those 1000 plus nights waiting for something

that would never come, waiting

for my love to come back to me like a cosmic

boomerang because of course it would,

wouldn’t it?

I don’t know how to explain it, don’t know

what he’d say if he knew–

that just like the love never fully left me

the dark that crept into my veins in his absence

didn’t either. Don’t know

if I’d have the strength to tell him

that my body learned to attack itself

targeting my thyroid, my adrenals, my mind

forgot how to do everything but wait

wait, even though you told me not to

but love was a stronger siren.

My body took an imprint of those 1000 plus

nights, sunrises, sunsets–a marking

too permanent for medicine, a diagnosis

I’ll probably live with forever.

I don’t know how to explain it, how now

when new, sweet love has soothed so many wounds

like honey, like eucalyptus–how is it possible

that the dark ocean still laps, sometimes low until I

almost forget about it, then sometimes high,

high, too high up on my beach?

I cannot tell all the reasons. Only that love

carves the deepest scar. Only that

I still wouldn’t take any of it

back.

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