moribund,

I’m just like what one of the Bronte’s said –

'down to that tomb already more than mine!'

but it’s you on the trolley, the metal just as cold as your skin.

how close were we to this end

and for how long did we walk this wire?

lost and deserted each, neither better than the other.

how long did we swear by denouement

before you gave in and claimed it as your own?

I was and will always be light years, light years away from you.

now I tie your toes together, no ghost could compare with the haunting

of you and your memory:

stains of summer and bruises of promises

in a bed still half empty –

half yours, half mine,

and your half is now missing.