You hold the knife then.
Pointed at my stomach then.
Don’t run with scissors again.
I don’t know why I think then,
about this phrase again.
You have this strange look, ghost.
Weird little smile almost,
glee in your eyes almost.
Don’t hold a knife thus then.
So I am not spooked again.
I still think then,
it’s coincidence then.
Until it happens again
and I begin to see then.
And wake up from that dream then.
It turns out it was a delusion.
You were just an illusion,
of a husband unproven.
I was so alone then,
fearing there won’t be atonement.
Absolution in healing then,
as I walk down the street then.
With my backpack neat again.
And I can breathe again.
Leaving behind the foile à deux man.
Writing for Healing 