There is no holiday from race.
I think that I
can enter his world,
But it is foreign to me
and I find
I want to keep it that way.
Tears,
tears and grief
flow from his eyes.
His body shakes,
his form so soft, so malleable,
It pulls at my heart.
And yet, I stand
a distance off,
watching this man,
his anguish, washing
over the room,
tidal waves
that ebb and flow,
catching in his throat,
escaping as sobs,
the depth of which I know too well.
I want to take this man,
envelope him
in understanding
reach out gently
to touch this wound,
this gaping maw
that makes him lift the bottle,
But his path is solitary.
Surges pull him
awash in dopamine --
from my world
to an expanse, a void
too solitary to join.
And so, as he pushes off,
I stand on the shore of sanity
and watch,
No widow’s walk for me.
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