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It’s confusing, afterwards.
Trying to sort through
just what happened,
and how we feel about it
and is there even a “we”?
Sending comfort through cyberspace
and clinging to
those sentence fragments
that the spell-checker hates
as our illegal gospel.
Sorting through
the tangled yarn of our feelings
trying to figure out where it started
and had it ever really stopped
or just been there all along
and maybe that was it.
Feeling the small spurts of pain
and heartbreak
whenever I opened the new mail
reading the typed print,
brain sending pain to me,
formulating a response
that would keep us a little closer
with a little less pain.