Make Like a Tree and Leaf

I am french fries without ketchup,
Charlie Brown without Snoopy.
A clown without a circus.
She's leaving.

Stop all the clocks.
Hold back Apollo's chariot.

She can't go now;
not while I feel like tying her down
to a set of silent movie railroad tracks;
not while I'm still reeling,
from feeling like Lando just sold me out to Darth Vader.
Et Tu Brute?
I am Michael Corleone
whispering to Fredo-
"I know it was you...
and you broke my heart."

But really, instead of wanting
swift, bloody Sicilian revenge,
I just want to know that (like me)
she'll also endure the pain of an amputee
haunted by the phantom of their limb.

I sit on her bed and watch her pack.
As she smooths out the wrinkles in her shirts,
all I can think about is
tossing all of her personal effects around the room
and throwing her plane ticket into the fireplace-
(though I think she'd be quite cross with me).

I think I ask too much of time,
and too often I waste so much of it.
Even now
when I ought to be saying
everything I won't get to when she's gone,
I instead just write these silly lines,
and write this poem
as the silence fills
the increasing emptiness of this room.