I pull up, golden hour drips through,
glazes your ornaments. Bittersweet.
The white rabbit clock,
five minutes too fast.

I trace my fingers over the curves
of your sofa, green velvet hills
like last summer at the castle in Dover,
when we realised it might be over.

I look at your art for the last time,
shapes and maths, strong and clear.
My abstract dreamscape is
Decaying in a landfill