Dysthymia

I grieved. I wept. I Still Am.

Ripped the clothes I was wed to from my chest.
Screamed. Yearned, clawed
At those burial stones on my fingers
Till my hands bled.
Wretched his name
Over and again. Dead, dead.
Gone home. Gutted it.
Twitched in a single bed.

Two empty hands, white femurs blown in the dust.
But, only halves.
Shoved my black funeral dress into a black binbag
Shuffled round
Clutching silk shoes.

Noosed a tie around my empty neck.
Gaunt nun in the mirror
Touching Celibacy.

I learnt the stages of grief, photos of my face
In each of the frames. All those weeks
He was going away from me, dwindling
To the shrunk size of a snapshot, going, going

Till his name was no longer a word
The last hair of his head floated out from my sheets.
His scent left my bed and my home.
A will was read.
He even left me all rights to his body
Then he was vanished
Into the small zero of my ring.

R.I.P.