I have neglected you, dear one,
once so full and vivid, now
expatriate in the cheerless corner.
Look at you drooping, clinging
to the bloodless parts of you,
having long dwindled in
the thankless dark.
Here I come with a sharp pang,
lovely amputee.
How much happier you will be
to forget the bereft bits,
no longer of use in your unfolding.
Until memory pales,
will your phantom limbs
also rustle in the window’s breeze?