Something beautiful. Gone.
     A sensation. Gone.
     Massage at the tight, tense corners of my central muscle, at the place where membrane holds liquid heart.
     Gone.
     A dream. A future. A gift. A way of seeing.
     Gone.
     Mostly it's you.
     Gone.
     There was a room. There was a sheepskin rug. Fleece up. Warm and round. A story where life wins.
     The room is still there. But you are not.
     There is a window.
     I sit and look out.
     There is a romantic landscape.
     Maybe I'll share it with someone again someday.
     Something has ended.
     Party ruins...
     ...and I must do the dishes alone.
     Loneliness tries to corrupt my solitude.
     I am strong.
     I am afraid of a long time without love; I am afraid of a long time without a lover. I might do something foolish without the security and comfort of a tender, supportive lover. I think of women who are not your measure. I think of my desperation.
     ...was there a sudden flash of light outside? Like God just took a flash photo of my condition?
     Night is coming on. I'll be alright. I sure wish I had someone to cry with; to cry to. I want to cry and tomorrow morning be OK.
     Instead, I have to be OK now.
     I will always love You, but now I have to travel the story of my heart a little farther.

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