It may not be on the same level
as Santa. Or Jesus.
but it’s a lie nonetheless that
we tell each other and pretend
“Time heals all wounds,” we say
as if we know what we are talking about.
I know for a fact that
cuts, scrapes, incisions and all manner
of wounds to the flesh
will heal over time.
But what of the wounds
of the soul?
Of the heart?
Gaping, horrific, people-shaped holes
that can’t knit themselves shut.
Holes that took part of me with them
like a house that slides from the earth
into a sinkhole, pulling trees and bikes,
cars and swingsets, gone.
The parts of me anchored to you
are torn away.
And now, these empty spaces
echo with the sounds of voices
I must strain to hear.
Absence leaves a hole, yet
my heart is your final resting place.
We should tell each other