The love has stayed within me
just the same as the resentment.
Perhaps the latter more easily,
perhaps the latter now more familiar.
All of your news is secondhand—
or, should I say, all my news?
A death foretold months ago,
limped to its final place in the garage.
My second thought was, “I told you so.”
My first was still to wonder how to fix it,
which led back to what I can’t say to you now.
I don’t say anything to you, now.
You’re gone but only from my life, not yours.
How do I deal with this living grief?
The love still lives, the anger still lives,
the hurt grows larger by the day.
Resentment changed and larger, too,
I miss you and I despise that I do
when you don’t seem to miss me at all.
But the love is still here, same as me,
hoping you’ll come back.