Sate

Near as I can tell
it’s love
tender tendon
you still won’t touch

I was okay
when we started
I’ll be okay
if this is our end

Time enough
for an answer
enough of enough
to get my fill

Revisionist History

If any words are left
they’re yours

Traces of love
in the syntax
I’d hate to edit

It’s what I do

We made enough material
to keep me reducing
the last two years
at least

Rough drafts
of your smile
I’d like to see
should we meet again

Kitsch

There’s so little left of you
save the presents I prepared
maybe a paperback
still buried in my box of books
Quixote or that author
with a shapeless name

You were fond of his words
so I read them all
the sort of thing I end up doing
end up end upping
less now I hope
less afraid I’m not enough

They were for your birthday
the one I celebrated the half of
the one you broke things off
two weeks before

A pair of finger-less gloves
black lace with red ribbons
the most you thing
I thought there could be
and a necklace
in similar state of goth

Silly trinkets still buried
beneath my towels
traces of love
I’ve tried to toss out
more than a time or two
still there last I looked

Leftovers

There’s half a smile
with your name on it
next to the toaster
help yourself

Same one you saw
when we were here last
same place I pretend home
same blank walls

You never moved in
I never moved on
happy ghost
in mortal coil