What now?

he asks.

I say, 
you breathe. 
you wake up, and you breathe. 
you shower 
and you cry 
and you get dressed.

I say, you cry. 
you cry until there’s nothing left, 
until your eyes hurt, 
until the pain in your chest 
has softened, just a bit.

I say, you wake up 
and you eat and drink 
and shower and grieve, 
and you cry and wank and cry 
and sleep and breathe.

I say, you cry. 
you go to football games and 
you get an itch in your ear for no good reason, and 
you want to smash the mirror, but 
you don’t, 
you breathe.

I say, you breathe.
you make tea and you forget about it. 
you brush your teeth too hard 
and spit blood into the sink. 
you breathe.

I say, you live. 
you go to work, 
you go to the shops, 
you go out for flowers, 
and you come back.

I say, it’ll get easier, 
but what I mean is, 
it will be as routine as 
putting on your socks 
and the kettle 
and the radio in the morning.

I say, 
you don’t stop thinking about them, 
but you won’t feel like your heart 
will give out when you do. 
you give out smiles like sweets.
I say, you breathe. 
and you keep breathing.