The living room is silent,
and my fingers are cold.
Have you come by in awhile?
Have you chewed on your nails,
pacing by the porch, before you brushed the brass knocker
with your rough knuckles?

The woolen blanket is missing,
from the back of my office chair.
I remember you stole it as a significant memento for yourself, when you stormed out. Your words knocked ice
deep into my throat, until it caused me
to lose the right words, to help you stay. Keep the demons at bay. The woolen blanket rarely helped,
unless I pressed the cloth into your
tired shoulders.

Do you miss me?
Does my touch still linger?
Sometimes, I see you across the street,
and frost grows at the edge of my glasses; a silent fury benign of threat,
but full of pain, making my bones creak and my back tingle. Makes my teeth chatter, and sweat build.

I still wonder,
when I peered behind the peephole,
to your bent head that looked
at your wavering hand by the brass knocker, scared to knock at the door.
Did you still love me back then?
Did you miss the press of my palms, and the kiss I gifted your forehead?
Was there still a remaining shred of love, left there for me?

But the living room remains silent,
and my fingers are cold.
When I see you across the street,
my heart drops, and your shoulders
are heavy, with or without the
woolen blanket. My glasses fog,
and every time I look into
the tiny peephole, not a single shadow remains there, for me to see.

Between the street, and porch of mine
that seems to rot away into the years of its growth, the rift only grows farther and farther apart, that even sorry cannot begin to cover the ravine between us.

I clench my cold fingers and cry, the day I finally acknowledged my futile efforts.

Between the porch and my brass knocker. Between you and the door.

Somehow, our love ended here.