if there are no tea leaves to read,
this limbo we have settled in,
passing professional messages
via our professional media,
locking up forever
any personal exchanges,
methadone that keeps
the patient alive,
if not thinking,
waiting for the conditions
that brought about the need to cease,
the ache most coming
during those days of the week
when there are no
professional messages to send,
the ache for what once transpired
most acute,
if only in knowing these old,
sometimes tender exchanges
can never occur again,
a silence to all encompassing,
it is deafening,
leaving everything in a vacuum,
this inner space as devoid of life
as outer space, and yet,
we still exist in the same orbit,
and still see each other in passing,
even if she has moved on
to explore new possibilities.
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