After you tell me it’s over
The elevator’s metallic cables deliver you to the foyer,
The hesitant choke of your car’s ignition takes you down my street
for the last time.
These are the sounds that carry you away from me.
I wait for the sky to fall in, for fissures to break the sidewalk.
I long for vast, geophysical reasons why we can no longer be together,
but the knife you used to cut my body from yours
was made only of words.
I lie face down on my pillow and remind myself to
I watch bad t.v. a blonde detective solves cases with tweezers and a microscope.
I realise there must be tiny shards of you all over me:
your hair your sweat soaked through me.
Last night your cells fell down on me like snow.
I feel strangely close to you even though I know you are gone.
So, I go to bed I don’t wash.
At night I dream of an albatross circling the cliffs after their partner has died.
If I stop breathing they will come here put tape around my belongings: my desk, my
dresser, piles of unwashed laundry.
They will conclude that I did not put up a fight,
and pity the luminous nakedness of my thighs.
They will dust me with powder until I am white,
glowing in the phosphorescent maze of your fingertips,
and my body will lead them to you.