Sometimes sorrow seeps out of the seams of my heart, up my wind pipe and into the back of my throat.
I am strangling on my own grief. You can see me turning 50 shades of violet
and I just wish that you would move behind me,
pass your arms around my chest.
Your strong fists
pumping my sternum
in a surprising taking of action.
In a valiant heroic geste.
Sending that condensed form of unhappiness, black and hard like a hockey puck out of me, expelled from my body, sent careening through the air until like a bullet it would be lodged in a sturdy ceiling beam
where a person could yearn to hang himself.