Poem: In Mourning

In Mourning,
though natural,
heaviness of heart and
harder to breathe and
nothing seems funny at all.

Embarrassing why-asking,
probing around and around
with the tongue
to the nerve
of the decaying tooth:
Ouch
and do it again and:
Ouch
and do it again and:
Ouch
and one more time and:
Ouch!
And stop.

In Mourning,
stop probing,
the tooth that is far gone.
For Faith is still Faith
and Love is still Love.
My days still go on,
even without her bliss.
I did it before,
long before I met Miss.
And Miss will still be there,
I'll see her again.

So why am I feeling
that Mourning begins?