Alone. I’m eternally sitting next to empty indentions in couch cushions; leviathans churn in stomach acid again, thoughts of you stir them from their rest. Vomit and grease? Odd company to keep, but they’re all I have left of you & him & me together. No photos from holidays abroad, no keepsake of lovely times spent together as a family, nothing left but realizations: you’re gone & he’s gone & maybe so am I. It is horrifying to be this empty. I could have died on that hospital bed, no one would have known: ghosts don’t have obituaries in the paper.
When no one will be there in the end to hold your hand: you’re a friendless fuck. You’re a waste of nutrients & human fuel. You’re a mere wart upon the body of the earth, a parasitic existence feasting itself on transient substantiations of grief and solitude. Let the heart tremble. Let it flutter. I need to breathe again, a moment of fresh air & unclenched fists. That being said, I will be here even if we aren’t husband & wife. Please. Just work with me for him & you & for me too. Look upon the face of our work and cry wonder: a two-legged bustle with dirt on his nose.
Justin A. Clark is a father to one toddler living in Indiana. He attended Vincennes University where he obtained an Associate of Science in History and an Associate of Arts in Philosophy.