"A Poem for the Broken-Hearted"

My body aches to be held — not by an idea of you,
not by a ghostly presence that flickers like firelight —
but held the way you used to hold me.
Will I ever feel at home in this body again?

When your head burns with questions,
and knowledge of death rises like bile in your throat,
take a moment to focus on your breath —
In, two, three, then out, two, three. And repeat.

Release the questions for now;
there’ll be time enough for those later.
Fasten your grip, instead, on the thread
of beauty that runs through all things.