What remains

An indispersible chill
hangs,
like a lead curtain
pushing head
and heart down
with the weight of
its invisible heaviness.
Stop motion atmosphere,
rancid with
bitter memories.

That night
of the day you left,
how I sleepwalked
through the entire house,
not recognizing
anything in particular;
how time had meant
nothing to me
except I knew that
the clock in the hall
ticked, and tocked,
and tocked,
and ticked.

Since then I sense nothing
save a faint,
dull hum between my ears
that drowns the sound
of the rest of the world;
somewhere else
an uncomfortable thumping,
which turns out
to be a wheezing,
shattered heart.

I stand barefoot
in the kitchen,
numbed flesh grinding
into broken glass,
trying to unravel
the puzzle of
your upturned breakfast plate,
smeared still with egg yolk –
how I always feared
the rebuke for
piercing your yolks! -
and streaks of
congealed sausage grease
climbing halfway across
the jaded disc, pretending
to be china pattern.

Your socks, unsorted
on the countertop,
where your green china mug
with the small chip
on the opposite side
sits, cold coffee marks
rimming the edge.

I perch on the end
of an unmade bed,
on your side;
the sheets, undulating still
with the indent
of your shape.
Slumping softly,
sideways into your pillow
I bury my face
into its valley
as you left it
since you slept
there last,
and inhaled.
Stale mix of soap,
and tobacco
and Old Spice lingers
and stings,
like acid.

Outside, a lawn half mowed;
the washing half hung, with
pegs swinging half heartedly
on the line, like so many
dismembered, drumming fingers.
Inside, frozen meat
half thawed, with no hope
of becoming anything
remotely palatable.

Through the days
then weeks,
then months,
what remains
is me,
half alive, and
alone as I began.