3.

it's christimas.
your favorite sheets are on
your empty bed. to you
this has always been the season
of loss and losing. the gates of hell
swing freely. a secret hope,
no concern of anything else
marching in. the phone turned off,
the other unplugged from the wall.
though there is no such thing as
isolation. we are walking around
the words we don't want
to admit.

you consistently tell me
what i am, what i am not,
and what i could possibly be.

i haven't been listening but
have been busy waiting,
quiet contemplation and hoping
the next year is about more
than survival.

my feet are in the mud.
don't worry, i know what we're in for,
and what comes next
but there will be no telling.