She is gone

The air is still.
The heat even more so,
And it is difficult to breathe.

The silence is loud.
The memories even more so,
And it hurts to think.

The exhaustion settles in,
But nights remain sleepless
And any sleep that does come
Is easily disturbed.

The desperation and confusion
Whirl around; a cyclone
Around goes dirt.
Around goes crumpled paper.
Around goes a napkin,
With three tiny words carefully sketched in the center.
And around it goes
Anywhere, emphasizing the emptiness
making a home where my heart once lived.

The pixies disguised as women
Unintentionally trip me with their eyes.
They are beautiful.
And I fall for…
Their eyes.
Their hair.
Their hips.
Their breasts.
Their legs.
Their backs.
Their lips.

And in this moment,
The air and I are on equal ground.
In a slip in slow motion,
I remember a wise warning:
beware of a woman’s love.
It is pure ecstasy.
A slow, slow poison.