In the room
he doesn’t do much but stare at walls
and sometimes a few photographs
of a time so near than since has passed.
His chest aches with heaviness.
All he does is stare at walls,
but they do nothing to hide the pain
or the shame of his devastation.
(They do nothing to hide her face, that once smiled for him.)
His failure.
He’s lost seven pounds.
He cries but his tears never hit the ground.
His door is always locked,
he doesn’t answer when ignorant people knock
and ask what’s wrong?
ask if he would just talk.
That it isn’t healthy to be sad over
nothing at all.
(But it is nothing, and that is all.)
He stares at his white walls.
It’s such a dismal view.