You are
the


Dripping faucet

The crack in an ice cube…



The carpet imprint under a piece furniture
(wehaven’tmovedfor30years)

the strand of hair in cold, stale cup of coffee. . .


a rustling of papers

we slept here,
all of us.

in a white room
with a broken fire place
with writing on the wall



you are the eyes that never close and the lips

i’ve never felt.