Pneuma

The hole,

the home that was made in my chest.

The empty cavern that wallows about,

a vacancy that now eats away at my anger,

at my presence with its everlasting hunger.

The denial,

the nagging ache,

the pressure arising from a presence of loss.

It veins that crawl to my brain,

my very thoughts I cannot escape,

an illusion,

my santuaty.

Waves of silent cries,

consuming all of the presence and prettiness that has been left behind.

A desperation to rid itself

of the devastating violence of separation,

to rid itself of its own emptiness.

The endless obsession of what is left of a time we’ve shared.

My friend,

my reminder of a loss,

to what it was I really desired.