I stand in a field, with
A shovel in my hand.
The sun is low in the sky,
Disappearing,
Just as you did.
I begin to dig,
Trying to think of anything but you,
Thinking of nothing else.

The first few stabs at the ground
Feel good, fulfilling.
As I lift the dirt away,
It’s like I’m lifting a burden from myself.
The trial is calming.
But it’s only hands’ work.

The field is empty,
Dead. The grass hasn’t grown
Here in a very long time.
The dirt is a pale tan,
Devoid of any nutrients.
This place is dead like my heart
And dead like you.

Days and nights pass
And I continue digging,
As the ground starts to harden
And freeze over as the
Temperature lowers.
I assume that I’ll just keep digging
Until I’m finally tired enough to stop.
But even as I grow weary of the
Monotonous motion of

—Scoop, lift, dump—

—Scoop, lift, dump—
I can’t seem to make myself stop.

I think it’s okay.
Eventually I’ll have to stop.
Right?
But days turn to months, and
Months to years.
Years of digging this hole,
Aimless, not really having a purpose,
But just continuing the motion
Since it’s keeping me from falling apart.
My heart rotted away a while ago.

After a time I finally look up
From my work,
And notice how deep I’ve dug myself.
I’m so far down, I can barely
See the top.
My regrets of not being able to know you,
Of not having been a part of your life,
Are suddenly replaced by regrets of
Lost time.
Where did it go? Why didn’t I notice?
Suddenly a hand reaches down,
To save me from myself. But I’m
Not sure if I deserve the favor.

You live on in my memories,
What little I have.