This isn't a poem.  Seriously, where'd he go?

A tiny devil lands
on my shoulder;
having no counter-
part, she stands

                               and, as I walk
                               at rabbit's pace
                               to the old place
                               where we used to talk,

                                                          ­          she drags from
                                                            ­        her cigarette,
                                                      ­              flicking it,
                                                             ­       hum-drum.

"He ain't comin',"
she says,
and ashes
on my neck.

                               "Don't need him,"
                               I lie--should lie
                               down to die,
                               but light up instead.

Unconvinced,
she scoffs at me.
"Then what do you need?"
And a dreadful wind

                                             slithers through
                                             the fissure,
                                             icy, bitter.
                                             "I don't need you."

                                                          ­                      The woods, too
                                                             ­                   are dead, like us--
                                                            ­                    a Winter-sheared husk
                                                            ­                    through and through.

You'll come, I hope,
leaning over
the grove, or
maybe I don't.

                                      You'll come, I hope,
                                       leaning over
                                       the grove, or
                                       maybe you won't.