In my garden, there are cigarette corpses None of which were ever yours. Were they yours, I’d have grieved as Their fires collapsed and their breath grew meagre, Until the last of you upon them dwindled in winks of ash.
In my wardrobe, there is a shirt Which I’m not sure is mine or yours. Were it yours, you’d want it on your back And not draping you across my mornings as I dress, Yet I fear I’d miss the smudges you put in my dawns.
In my pocket, there is a note Unaddressed but undoubtedly mine. Were it yours, it wouldn’t be written In such naked ink, It'd be dormant in that head of yours.
In my mind, there are the ghosts Of kisses unaware and helpless smiles. Were they yours too, your jumper would still Be woven with absinthe, and your arms with mine. No more than ghosts; they breathe down my neck.