After forty-eight hours,
the migraine finally retreats—
a slow, aching tide.
What a painful weekend.
How terribly lonely life is, sometimes.
Last week, my ulcer reopened.
I came home and spat up blood,
spent days cooking careful meals—
but by the weekend,
a headache struck like a furnace blast,
shooting through my nostrils,
searing my skull.
For an old headman like me,
pain is no stranger.
We are neighbors—
bumping shoulders,
grating on each other’s nerves.
There are no real neighbors in this world
except for pain.
But this time,
I could not tell—
which was worse:
the pain itself,
or the pain of loneliness?
