The Last Love Song

We exist as widows
do, remarried but,
all the merriness absent
from us;

unmoving, we
swallowed our hearts, sobbing,
our breasts as heavy as
our chests used to be.
Kiss me, I am lonely.

The soil is dry and
lifeless, a shell of its
former self, the space
between the air
and water table
the roots keeping it
occupied, vanished.
Where has my husband gone?
Oh, help me move on.

I held a robot's hand,
he was soulless but,
not old,
and we listened to songs
about falling in love with
our special one
not about just being happy.
He made me smile
I never laughed.

(I can't remember waking.
All I know is the
sun and the water and the
cold stiffness of the soil.)
I screamed - so loud
I tore the corners of my mouth:
"Every person is
a vase cracked open,
their water spilled out
onto the ground.
This soil we stand on
cannot be saved."

I was sick with loneliness
or something else that has
scientific evidence
and, on my death bed,
I asked my robot husband
to plant me a flower.
It was to be our child
and inherit the earth
to perhaps make it better.
So, he put it in the
The flower died before I did.

We're widowed here,
lonesome and unmoving,
our heads far heavier than
ever our chests or lungs,
stuffed with our sadness,
questions about lovers
and where they have gone.
It could be asked
"what have we done"
it would do little good.