Red doors in the painting,
plastered with little white crosses.
Hung on exposed coffee shop bricks.
The winter air, frost laughing on window glass.
Cold seeps into cracks of my fingers on that glass,
slow time and dark hallway doors
( i replaced the dead lightbulbs one night, I don't know why, entirely.)
I walk barefoot through the empty house,
retreating to the attic, a fading nest
of beer bottles and scraps of paper
and half written things, and forgotten
wisps of smoke, ghosts rocking in the walls.
I laid in blue afternoon light in her room,
glad to be held, (telling a story about this type of light,)
holding onto someone
for an hour, in a moment or two,
anchoring down the soul.
The news on T.V. has become a hard swallowed pill.
Bad acid and the daily hangover,
Omaha with your electric pianos,
your cigar bars and cobblestones,
two horse drawn carriages,
your memories of friends who have left
in my absence,
but don't worry
no goodbye was ever necessary.