Ode to a lonely eve

I don't ascribe to the sappy Hallmark commercialism of Valentine's Day (but I'll take the Godiva.) That said, it's the first time I've spent Valentine's Day alone in ... oh, 5 years.

While I normally go out to eat, I stayed home and just made myself some chicken noodle soup. Pathetic much? It gets worse, I didn't really sleep much because I was busy working. I managed to make my way through the day itself dry-eyed but last night I just broke down and cried so hard I gave myself a nosebleed. No joke. This of course caused me to cry harder. It's kind of a funny image I know, the saline mixing with the plasma, one tissue for the eyes and another stuck up the nose and sobs punctuated by staccato breaths and oh, shit it's all over my hands and shirt. Now I remember that Plath committed suicide around this time, 43 years ago. Feb 11th to be exact. Feb 15 Ted Hughes attended the coroner's inquiry. She said "As if a great muscular owl were sitting on my chest, its talons clenching & constricting my heart.''

I don't sleep well without you, I don't dream peacefully, my thoughts wander to the horizon and my heart sags as the weather turns colder. What kinds of strain can the heart withstand? How far does the muscle stretch? How long does a bond extend for and if it's elastic what's the breaking point? When does the vein just pop open and explode? I know you can measure all of these and tell me the encyclopedic answer.

So I ask myself the same question again, the one that runs through my mind while watching my windshield wipers cleanse the rain away, I ask it with clenched jaw and watery eyes:
How long, how long must I sing this song?

I ask it in a befuddled state of sleeplessness and hopelessness and less and less assurance. I know the answer. I know the answer. The heart lies here. The heart lies.