Odd boxes, Patch the room. Small plates of food Half eaten, dusted, With leftover crumbs and papers. The phone never calls And shades are drawn for days Only opening for small, dropping lights That move in the eves.
I can Not look at all the photographs I took Of us Even though I want to, Even though they lie Close to me With my unmade bed, on the floor Always falling, But never to sleep, without you, Empty.