my days
are a constant looking back
but this is only as far as
I can return to;
this is how you last appeared
at the doorway
before it closed
behind you.
and I listened to
your footsteps out there,
echoing in here.
you should have died
before September came
and left me
with sandpapered skin
and altered lifeline,
bleeding contempt
into the careless carvings
of your coffin I thrust
into a plot of forgetfulness.
your self-glorifying acts
of penance -
emails, without attachments,
in spam folders
and letters, duplicates of overrated templates,
slipped beneath doors
on mornings that rain.
I burnt them all,
along with the other articles
of your past life
with us.
my disappointment knows no words --
my rage, no voice;
instead, let my silence
amplify the subdued tones
of your neglect
that vibrates along the lines
of emotional impotence. |