To describe this awful sadness,
The melancholy which strikes so hard,
I must contradict tradition,
And posit the existence of a physical soul.
Your absence, the thought of your
Being absent from my side, floors my spirit.
I struggle to rise before the ten-count.
I bleed, darling, I bleed.
Your blows have opened a cut above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.
They might not let me face another round.
I am finished. For me the fight is over.