Where do you find?

Where do you find
the going on from the
dark tearing loss to forever?

Where do you find it,
my lovelies?

With each other’s tears as a salve?

No, not even there.

For soon the sunlight
and the living take the
elliptical tears and place them in
square containers to be stored
for another day.

And the quiet ache of absence
takes the body through
speaking, and moving, and working
and eating and shitting.

Not even restless sleep can
be the soul’s night balm.

Where do you find the going on,
my lovelies?

Where, when each step forward
is heard as loud as hammers,
and echoes the weight of presence
in the hollow space of no more?