Perhaps

The doorbell rings.

I say “Who?”
and they say “Delivery!”

I sink my special knife into the tape,
unpack the wrapping,
and marvel at my selection.

My heart leaps —
the thing I had ordered has finally arrived.

This should do perfectly, I think.
What a remarkable decision on my part.

The server says,
Might I take your order?
I say yes — and go all in.

Yum.
The flavors here are even better than last time.
The chef must’ve done something extra special.

The corner store is still open.
It looks like they’ve gotten some new treats.
It won’t hurt to give some of them a try, at least.

A new TV show,
a new song,
a new fashion line —
but the same old pain.

I unconsciously make every effort I know
to calm this ache
I haven’t even confronted fully.

On impulse I ‘Place Order’ —
a midnight snack,
all in an effort to pack a wound
so deep I can’t tell
where it ends and I begin.

It’s a dull, deep, desperate throbbing —
one that has now synchronized with my heartbeat.

And I don’t know
if they can ever be separate —
if I’ll ever be me again.

Perhaps
I can ignore this impulse.

Sit with the absence of nothing new.

Be satiated with nothing
so that my mind,
my body,
and my spirit
can fill itself with my pain
instead of packing it away
for a winter that has never come.

Perhaps then,
my mind may find new ways
to tackle this confusion.

Maybe my body
might autophagize this pain
and make something new —
if I allow it to exist.

Tis’ only but a thought.

I’m hungry.
And my shoes are worn.

‘Place Order.’