En Décembre
I notice the sunlight no longer enters
the window, but hovers outside. I take
an hour to shower and dress, watching the
water pool at my feet. I make coffee only
to leave it to stand cold, undrunk. I listen
to halves of songs, regarde la télé, write halves of poems.
I sleep in the centre of the bed with
my arms outstretched trying to lessen the
empty space where you used to lay.
I buy cheap apples with brown flesh before
I remember I can’t eat tarte tatin
without tasting your lips and thinking of
my white pillows and your blonde tousled head
watching the dust particles dance for hours.
La Nouvelle Vie
I filled the gaps you left with silly little things
I buy new crockery, a teapot, though
Iva doesn’t drink tea. Candles, scarves, new
pens for the poetry I seldom write.
I’ve buried away memories of you
in the back of the drawer, with lost socks and
folded notes (I loved your cursive script) so
I feel brave enough to place one foot in
front of the other. I’ve rebuilt the wall
that crumbled in dusty pieces before me.
When I saw you, you were wearing a blue
linen shirt (creased in two lines at the back)
I took the bullet, tasted the salty
iron of blood, then quickly turned away.
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