Like the Bus

As if in an instant, there was nothing left of me.
My shell floats from room to room,
back and forth, away again,
as though it wants to be somewhere.
The hollow feeling centers me.
Still. Solid as a cold stone statue,
made immobile by man,
as I was.
Wind and cold register inside my home,
I feel them but then I don't.
The only hurt is my eye,
I've forgotten about my heart,
is it still curled there, somewhere?
Twisted inside layers of deep flesh;
it was once, I remember.
How can it hurt this much?
It shouldn't.
Saw it coming, like the bus.
Stepped on, stepped off
now lying dead gathering road dust.
Crushed.
Rendered motionless.
Surrounded by the present,
surrendering to the past or future,
either, both, at once.
First kisses, children, little smiles,
shoulders warm, now cold.
Heartbreak.
Stomachache.
The shattering of everything.
Cold insistence.
Selfish pain.
Blind panic, terror.
Tears came all day,
they wouldn't stop, they came every way.
Off the tip of my nose, round my cheeks,
over chapped pink lips to fall off my chin.
They didn't stop.
They fled down my shoulders, my pillows, my fingertips.
They fell, there's nothing left.