The furniture here: a space
aching to wear your texture

once again. By night
it is my grief—an ambush

of ghosts. What grace
shall I turn to? Behind

every sacred canvas
on this wall I have traced

out your face. The
webbing of these cracks

I keep neglecting
so I can gather a living

symbol of what spiraled
between my wants

& your wading away from me.
There is nowhere to move onto.

I have sealed the door
to the stairwell of my spine;

my body a basement
brimming with aloneness.

There is only this ribbed
window through which I stare

at a larger window stained  
with the moving trace of you.

Funny how you can
Tell the moon
Is full
Even with the
Blinds closed
Radiance of light
Can't help but
Shimmy their way
Through the slits
But you feel it
First
Like someone is
Looking over you
And you look.up
And a beautiful
Snow colored oval
Stares back at you
Perhaps with a
Knowing smile