the cold floors of forgetting

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.