Tonight there is

a small

crease in
my tapestry
of memories
of you.

and all this
night has
left to
offer is this
irish coffee
spilling chilled
off my
plate,

my love
for you
'now is
like a old
garment
that hangs
from me
like a dead man's
jacket 6 years
after his
wake,

and the
phone rings
off-key
and the sound
of silence
grates my
very essence,

like a
thousand
knives bleeding
me thin.

because  I am
neither
here or
there to
you.

not right
not wrong.

just a poor
attempt at
a masterpiece
that once

was us...