Three steps forward, Two steps back

I was ambushed late one night, so that I had to press myself 
Against the wall, cold from the perpetual AC thrumming in the room, 
And hold myself flat hoping that the torrents of grief would
Pass me by, keeping my peninsula of tears dry enough to fall

Asleep. I was ambushed by the unflinching embrace of memory
From a version of myself estranged from me. I miss this stranger with
Stars in her eyes when she look at this world. My gaze has lost the
Habituation of love, has not been softened by morning light that reaches

In to touch a face, a hazy dream, like fingers carding through hair.
Maybe all the tears have washed away the remaining glow of 
Now dead stars. To behold the world teeming with beloved, I have no 
Eyes for that. When pressed against the chilled wall it reminds my body

I am now a slab of meat cold as ash. No, not even ash,
For there is no refugee heat left to spark. I am plaster on the wall,
Passionless, dreaming about being the other wall facing the
Window of sun, imagining my skin under the warm touch of 

Sun spot tracing upwards sensuously as the sun dips through 
The day. Will I feel enough to make me shiver again? I am host 
To an unyielding and unresponsive body, like a drowned corpse,
No longer arching towards touch. Losing favourite parts of

Myself is an inevitable swamp to wade through on nights where 
I will eventually fall into nightmares. Blinded, I will always stumble and fall
Elsewhere, but always backwards onto my palms and bad landing
Sets me back two and a half of the three steps I make in the light of

Day. At least the ambushes are satiated hyenas and tackle me less 
Frequently. At least the river of memories will turn dry, and I can peel myself
Off the wall and take stock of the pieces I am left with. Out of 
Broken glass, I can create a mosaic of reasons to be gentle to myself again.