It is night again, and it’s never easy. I am alone in my room, reading poems from one of my favourite poets, wishing I had his book, wishing it wasn’t so hard to find. I am reading from an old journal where I have scribbled his poems, where I have written his verses for years, from copies borrowed from friends, from old college notes when I took that one poetry class that changed my life.

I am walking barefoot in my room, a poem in my hands, reading, smoking, thinking of a lover that isn’t there.

Ramón C. Sunico

You would not think
the way he carries it in
that he carries a thing:

the way he favors
his left hand (which touches
its strings) as if it were a wing

that touched God; the way
his knees cling to its sides
as if it were love. It is

his cross, to love
a mermaid whose hair
can sing, his cross

to bear, a wooden box,
half hourglass, half
hollowness restraining

resonant air, to know
what is not woman, not thing
but voice,

and, with the audience
mute as landscapes,
to let it scream.

My heart is a bruise.

Oh, how casually you break my heart. To read this in your letter, like it isn’t big enough to stop the world: “It’s been sleep work sleep work for me. I had a girlfriend but I think it just ended recently…long story.”

How casually you break my heart, love. As if we never shared a bed, never held hands while we sleep, never washed each other’s bodies, knowing how fragile that tiny muscle is, encased in skin and bones. How casually you break my heart, darling. I didn’t see it coming, did I. You are magnificent. How simple, how easy, how quiet. I woke up this morning and had no idea what I was in for. Incredible.

How casually you break my heart. I remember how we had to convince each other to pursue our dreams. Two years, we said. Two years of you being there. Two years of me being here. How sure I was that the distance would not matter. How many ways you went to prove it to me. And then: today. How casually you break my heart. Just like that.

I don’t know if this is what I have been preparing for these past few months of stabbing pain. I’ve been writing about loss long before you say goodbye.

So this is the beginning.

Lessons From A Revolution
Ramón C. Sunico

(for Mila)

My father taught me
this one thing:

that pain knows no
size no breadth.
It understands
no bigger no
smaller no
more no less.

All pain
All pain
is intimate.

Have you
felt it?

It is the same
for both women
and men. The rich
feel it as much
as the poor.

Pain: who do you blame
when you feel it?

It has made everyone
the saddest person in the world.