(yesterday)
there was a hollow in my bed,
shaped like you and
all the stories you used to tell.

i don’t know if
you were happy but
i think i was, then.

(today)
all that’s left is shards of glass and
promises whispered over the
blade of a knife and
the heat of your skin is
imprinted on mine

(tomorrow)
i’ll take out the trash and
strew the pieces of what i
have left and
blow delicate flowers of
lost dreams and cold ashes

(after?)
it’s supposed to hurt
i guess (i know)
and the punch line of
this joke is
[ silence ]