In this swarm of crisp-paper dust,
Looking out and seeing that youíre gone,
Obtuse corners reach out and pull me back.
Very close to being happy again,
Even close to smiling, but I canít.
Your hands are two weeks further now.
Old glass eyes, boiled and sold second-hand
Under that glass table top, staring out.
Dead owners ghosting around.
Eyeless, and prodding the next collector.
Sadness in a junkshop;
Pouring in, like the wind off this ten-mile street.
In solo my voice sounds lonesome Ė hollow.
Teeth hitting my tongue, late-night phone-call numb,
Everything a greyer shade of green or deep-velvet red.
The sickness of an empty single bed.
Heroines donít cry over time spent alone, so -
I let my eyes fall down, to stare through glass, at
Soap stains in my jeans, neglectedly unrinsed (that final time).