Tuesday, 21 December 2010


We avoided the living grief of failed love,
like household chores delayed a day,
or more, dirty plates piling
around thoughts unsaid;
my silence;
your chatter.

Our impending sentence,
writ by your departure,
a black hole,
a day of darkness.

Too easy to say it's too hard
to say goodbye;
even here in the afterglow
of this empty house,
this half-bed,
wishing the goodbye had been better.
We justified that.

I left the room of this poem just then,
feeling blindly the walls and the floor,
fetching a tissue to blow my nose,
noticing nails in the walls
like the framed birthday card you kept,
‘til now;
just fodder for the recycling bin
and a restless night.

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