You opened your arms
to find me waiting.
I wanted to make you aware
of this void,
which has swallowed all of your old belongings.
The old rug that she picked out,
with a tacky motif of spirals and scones,
done in limp shades of brown.
It's synthetic fibers
melting and smoking, eventually disintegrating into itself.
The cast iron pan, that made eggs and bacon on cold winter mornings.
When you would forget your slippers
and stand one foot on top of the other,
while you waited in front of the stove.
Waited, with your eyes closed. Replaying the night before,
when she said she didn't love you. You couldn't keep her.
She came up behind you;
the bacon is starting to burn.
Her arms wrap around your middle
and her face nuzzles into that crook between your face and shoulder,
where the skin is soft.
You want to hit her across the jaw
with the cast iron pan. Push her down
onto the frigid linoleum floor.
You want to straddle her stomach, hold down her shoulders
and scream.
There was nothing left in you
that didn't remind you of her.
It all laid broken, in disrepair.
Nothing but a warped skeleton remained.
Its shelves sagging
under the weight of forgetting.
I was called here.
After I saw your eyes
that laid flat.
I had to open the windows, let the light reflect.
I bustled around your place, tsk tsking under my breath
at the dust
you had let gather
in your absence.
I set away, to make things new.
