You said we were over, but keep texting back,
wanting to know where I hid your stuff
before you packed things up and went.
But I have no closet horde of paltry bits
to validate our time, just my memory’s mind,
full to overflow.
Your hip’s alpine slope lying naked at my side,
seen with a half-waked glance as the morning sun
leaks through louvered glass…
the dance of auburn curls and emerald eyes
as your head bobs in the strobing light
to music I can not stand…
the warmth of you in my arms as we cleave
the streaming course of gray commuters
rushing for their trains…
the cold, still blackness of night
Wondering which star you are beneath tonight
and who is standing beside…
the colorless tears when you realize
the bite of deception, the wounds left,
wouldn’t be remedied with a smile this time.
No, I haven’t any ephemeral shrine to you,
in the ashen rooms where I live alone,
but come by if you want. See for yourself.
