You ask me how I'm doing
And I reply
okay.
I do survive, and all
the daily tasks continue,
though I lack a certain grace,
a symmetry in how
I move from place to place,
it seems to me.
I have no face.
It is odd having you ask.
You were there, of course,
as flesh was torn from flesh; surely
you too felt something,
but perhaps it was
only I.
Well, I am okay now,
and do appreciate your asking.
I had wondered what happened to you,
my last vision being of you
drifting solitary,
the ragged tear of flesh (which seemed to be my own).
There
was no blood,
I noted, though I was certain,
watching as you drifted away, I
must be draining of all life,
yet was too stunned to know if it
was unseen tides or your own singular
determination which propelled you,
too stunned to follow after, pleading
(though I did plead, I who have no face.)
But yes, I am
okay. To my surprise it
heals over. It is awkward moving about
at times, and I feel far from attractive,
(I am surely no longer whole),
but it is said,
miraculously,
another one will appear,
here,
in your place.
Hearing that, in this ocean of tears,
I weep, though I have no eyes, no ears.
But you were the one I loved, I cry,
as if that matters.