I could smudge lavender or sage,
spread salt along my door frames,
yet no amount of ancient rituals,
will ever purify the space;

My spirit is what's tainted,
its tapestry soiled with your name,
No crystal will cleanse my soul of you,
of the infection that pervades.

Toxins in my bloodstream,
sickness and incessant ache,
are not left by your absence,
But by the destruction in your wake.

© UGarima