In The After-Days (Poetry)

How do I stop habit
taking two mugs from the cupboard
and my tongue from starting sentences
before it stumbles — takes a breath
to steady and remind myself he’s gone —
                                        he’s really gone?

How many days will come and go
without a soothing shift of any kind?
All thought stays raw as any wound
without the will — that strength of mind
to heal or to at least provide
a bandage to wrap the memory in

His suffering and mine go hand in hand
their source the same
we shared our lives right down
through death and pain —
his suffering released? But maybe no
if something of him knows what I feel now
he grieves for me — our struggling not done
just separated — fractured dreams gone dark
the jagged pieces cutting narrow ways
of getting through these light-abandoned days