broken bottle

is it weird to not feel empty, now that i don't love you?
is it weird to say i am happier now, doing as i please even if i don't have the comfort of your body next to mine as i sleep in a tiny little bed?
is it weird to think that although i am sick, i don't want you to bring me soup or kiss me better?
is it weird that i don't feel guilty for every little thing i did wrong.

i am sorry i ignored your call, i just didn't want to feel the pressure of your voice saying my name on the other end of the line.

i don't know if i could handle cutting your hair, caressing our head with my fingers finding the perfect spot to cut, measuring you with my touch. i don't want to touch your head that way anymore. for this i feel guilty- i said friends, but i am not holding up my end of this deal.

i am seeking comfort in the silence of my own bed, having left yours to be occupied by another.

i have this vision of a severed finger, the last nerves and sinews of skin and muscle attempting to stay connected, but the blood has all been washed away and there is no way that the finger will ever work again, no matter how much blood gets pumped into it. the last connections are severed slowly by a doctor skilled with a scalpel. both sides look alright, the portion of the finger now disconnected is placed in a jar and carried away, the attached portion is sewn up and wrapped in gauze to heal. although they say it will heal fine, i am afraid it will end up like easter island once all of the trees were cut down: dwindling population resulting in cannibalism and eroding soil.