Grief is not just for death
A cessation of feeling
Cessation of acting
Is like death, I guess.
Like how you stopped seeing me

I know you’re here,
The smell of your sweat
permeates the bedroom
like the boys’ locker room
in the basement of the high school,
all pheromones and testosterone
swirled in the cesspool of adolescence,
mashed between teeth
still sharp and unbroken.

I know you’re still here,
I can hear the sound you make
when you breathe in your sleep,
when your dreams rise almost close enough
to waking that the dogs howl back
and the moon shadows dance
through the trees outside the window.

I am angry enough that my voice is a deep
baritone, like a man,
growling warnings not to approach.
But this feeling needs a woman’s voice,
a siren to bring men
crashing upon the rocks
of her desire.

It is grief, in five steps.
I am long past denial,
and far short of acceptance.
I spit fire and breathe in
all the smells of you.