And in your absence
I find the empty cigarette pack
along with your words
scribbled down on a yellowed
napkin,
left ofver from any-day ago
when things were alright.
Your space, naked with the
departure,
screams in agony, knowing
that not long before
breath heated the now
stagnant air.
Fingerprints freshly left
on couch arms,
appendages that gripped us
night after days, echoing
the ideas which fooled our vision.
A homemade walk of fame,
by the door,
scattered handprints and footprints
but no stars.
The dim glimmer of brilliance
lost in obsidian haze.
Lost to my intentions,
your spirit occasionally
knocks on my door
ready to converse
about nothing at all...
which is where I finally
swallow the reality
that all I am left with
is a memory, a yellowed napkin,
and an empty pack of cigarettes.
