This morning

Sleep's dark curtain fell, suddenly.

Thick velvet drapes, from pure unconscious slumber

to confused, uncertain awareness.

Clear in obscurity,

blurred, hazy, and short sighted

when we are foolish enough to allow our minds to consider

such matters as night and day

and all else in between.



The sound of you putting away dishes in the kitchen

was what prompted the fluttering of naked eyelashes

Blue iris'; filtering the dim light in a room

too cluttered, she had to leave



But by the time I stumbled into the kitchen

there was nothing left of you for me to hold onto

Even the air--none of it spoke of you

There were no whispers scattered,

not even in the furthest darkest corners.



The sound of you cleaning up and clearing out

lifed up the curtains.

The final act.

And the kitchen--

it was still dirty.