It wasn’t a question of fulfillment.

It wasn’t a physical need that
And pursued his every waking moment.

It wasn’t something that food,
Or alcohol,
Or drugs,
Could amend.


When she left,
His heart was torn.

Leaving a hollowness,

More hurt,
And pain,
Than he could ever imagine,
Or accept.


Now, he was left
With the consequences
Of his failure to love her
As if she was all that mattered,
In his life.

And she was…

Had he only understood that then,

And now…

She was gone,

And his life assumed
The lackluster,
Dull pain of want,
And need…

And emptiness.


© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

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