It’s that same time staring up at the ceiling

That same walking-white-knuckled feeling.

That cigarette pile still sitting outside.

That slow-burn healing.

That slamming sound of an unfamiliar door.

That aching late-night bereavement.

That hope that’s got more of a hold.

That love that just doesn’t want to die.

It’s that song and its sentiment that makes it feel worse.

That morning dew I don’t want to see,

That sun that keeps shining in my eyes.

That cutting silence that breaks my bones.

That unmistakable homesickness when

you’re already home.

It’s that bad dream where I could swear he was right there.

That phantom limb first thing in the morning.

That night before pouring myself all over the place.

That crater he left in the earth.

It’s that emptiness I always feel and have to fill.

That hour of starting over, again.

That fear and its incorrigible truth.

That there’s no longer a man who once felt

as real as life.