Tilt

Wake Up, You. The sunlight was a bitter enemy To eyes clenched shut against Morning. Every Morning. Morning was no longer The hello He expected, No longer the New breath into His lungs That gave Him wings And filled His eyes with Hope for Her. (The floor was ugly Under His feet; It seems hardwood creaks When the heart breaks.) The house was no longer The haven where He would bring Her, Love Her, Laugh with Her, Smile on Her And make Her pretty teeth Show right back. Now the furniture was made of magma, Untouchable Because it was touched By Her body. He stumbled out of His hovel— All drawn shades and skewed sheets— And fell over in the kitchen. He gripped hard onto the table To keep from spilling to the tile. These days His whole world seemed To tilt.