Your room
Perfectly preserved,
Just the way you
Last observed it;
Same duvet cover,
Same sash.
Your favourite band
In a poster, yellowed
By the years, an empty
Glass on a bedside table,
An undisturbed pack
Of fears.
Sometimes I draw open
White chiffon curtains
But it’s still too bright,
Even this far removed,
Our eyes adapt
To darkness, as if
All of time
Is night.
A bookmark,
An elastoplastic strip,
Outside your window
A satellite dish.
We were such materials
In the continuity
Of loss. Sometimes
I wished and convinced
Myself that you would
Step across that threshold,
I’d hold you, the hug
To end all that could
Have been better defined,
But some things are not real,
And some are only crimes.
