I touch the pillow and breath in,
the waning scent of your leaving.
I whisper to the gray wisps of
crying clouds that are grieving.
I clutch the cross of mysteries,
the token you left for remembering,
the metal ornament that cut
scratches in our spiritual love,
refreshing each gaping wound
that you gave me.

Your eyes are like red wine
to a drowning alcoholic,
with lips and skin like ******
to this addled brained addict.

So, I put your portraits up
in my old musty attic.
I took down your paintings
cause the heart of the art
was always so paining.
I placed all of your clothes
in a black glad trash bag
in the back of my shed
where no one else goes;

So, the next time someone
comes looking for a door,
they won’t find any.
All the entrances to my heart
will be securely locked
and no one will get in there
anymore.