I closed the door to my private room and sat
on the cushioned futon with a cup of tea.
When the words came, they were swept along
by a river of salt, solid chunks so large in my eyes
I thought I was bleeding - and being aware
of every heartbeat in my head, in my hands,
in my feet, I was bleeding.
Under a too-bright lightbulb, I told of all my loss.
As the wind rattled the window outside,
he patted me on the back, smiled with red eyes,
and said, "That must be hard."
