In pieces

The house is getting darker;
I picture myself, standing on a chair
teetering, tottering, but
there's no-one to hold me steady

The cat thinks we've moved house
and is endlessly leaving the room,
tail erect, as if giving me the finger

I no longer listen to music;
your playlists were always better than mine
and I never realised how many songs
are about love, how much I liked to play
at heartbreak

The dog found your spare bridge
and follows me around the house
wearing your quarter smile

I can't think of a single thing to say
now that everything is whitewashed
in dead flat matt, a state of absolute meditation
any buddhist would be proud of

Every month, when my temperature dips
I gulp a shot of your whiskey, and imagine
I can feel you inside me

I sleep with your picture pressed close to my eyes
because your face is fading, I see only fragments;
your eyes here, your nose there, lips, ears,
and I can't piece them back together