after the night

I wanted to write a poem
on the night after the night of crying

this is the first one
after the the last one that felt worse than death
and I remember describing it that way

after a year of death
to include: no one saw it coming, an endless nap, suicide, and
her,
the piece of bloodline that led to love
after all of it
it was this heartbreak that strapped me to the bed
or the floor
and it all felt like forever.

I wonder, if the one after that one
and every one after that
will always feel like
dry eyes on the night,
after the night of crying?

And is it because I have nothing left to give?
Am I the dry well left behind, kept for decoration,
maybe something nice to remember
but to never use to it’s full capacity
is my heart
something never to be used to it’s full capacity?

Or does learning to walk away
just begin to feel more like power
and less like pain?
Even if my pace is slow
and my thoughts still ready to race for all the things I did not say,
such as,
I would have stayed,
I would have,

but I didn’t.

And I think power actually really comes
not in the walking away
but in the never walking to
in the first place,
when the thing is covered in clouds of smoke
he cannot understand my desire for fresh air
and lined with liquor
it will never quench my thirst.
Note: his protection is flammable.

   And I cannot again, afford to burn myself down. 
 
2
Kudos
 
2
Kudos

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