Polyphemus shouted, “Nobody is killing me!”
and I think about that too often.

How love can carve you up
but no one sees the blood.
You walk around half-blind, heart shattered
like a mirror, bits of you scattered, 
echoing as you cry out but it’s just noise.

No thunderous storm, no sharp blade
or betrayal, just a soundless abandoning.

And you try to explain it to someone who’s never
loved wrong, but it sounds like you’re crazy or drunk
or trying too hard.

Nobody is killing me.
I’m fine.
It’s just that you were the one
and you’re not here.