The room is cold 
dirtied by the empty 
cups, full ashtrays, he's
never been tidy but has
just let go today, himself, 
her last morning. He's
trying to find his way
piles of post, books, empty
paper over the table
He's lost his contacts,
his phone silent since
no one cares. She doesn't
so why so angry, hopeless
The thought of doing
anything about anything
just riles him beyond
imagination. 
The memory of being 
happy about happyness 
just stifles him beyond
inspiration. 
He knows it's his fault
too even then
even now no aptitude
to bring his love to her light.