The impact of loss is proportionate to how integral a part of your identity what was "lost" was. And the strength of what is left.

I miss Heimat, as if the places and people were my own. It's an occasional sudden twinge of longing. But I recover

But losing you was losing my whole self ... The third time over. I have nothing left to recover

It's a wound I wrap up in series of bandages, douse in opiates and hide from view. And I can even pretend I'm normal ... Even to myself!

Yet sometimes whenever it brushes against something, or the moon is full, or my old arthritis is up, or the cat walks on the right side of the room ... It rips open and won't stop bleeding

It almost doesn't hurt anymore, or familiarity & understanding has rendered the pain impotent. But still I ave to hide to stop flooding the campus with my blood. My dirty filthy blood

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