198

 A year has gone, and the turmoil remains  

That white penthouse, and the hope you smashed—  

Shattered dreams that were never reality,  

Yet you scattered them with impunity.  

I wake sometimes thinking I’m there,  

That you’ll soon be around.  

I wake again—you're gone forever,  

And my bed is the cold, hard ground.  

I never stop thinking: Why? Why me?  

But all I hear is silence, and your denial.  

You broke my back, tore my hope away,  

And left nothing of me, day after day.  

You emptied my hope, my heart, my life,  

And ran off with the lot.  

And now what is left—what have I got?  

We’ve got your number: 198.

And again:

A year’s gone.  

The turmoil still gnaws.  

That white penthouse—  

hope in shards.  

Dreams that were never real,  

but you threw them anyway,  

like glass into the street.  

I wake thinking I’m there.  

Thinking you’ll walk in.  

Then—  

you’re gone.  

Forever.  

And my bed is  

cold.  

Hard.  

Ground.  

I keep asking—why?  

Why me?  

Silence answers.  

Your denial answers.  

You broke my back.  

Ripped out my hope.  

Left me hollow,  

day after day.  

You took my hope.  

My heart.  

My life.  

Ran with it all.  

What’s left?  

What have I got?  

We’ve got your number.  

198.