A chipped mug on small table’s edge –
too close, might fall – a remnant
from times lit brighter, lighter
than now, the coffee cold; heart the same.
Were it to fall, shards wouldn’t be
as sharp as the broken glass in his chest,
each breath producing, bleeding pain
as he recalls
a hand in his, a secret smile, brush
of her hair over his chest while they
were together for miles, intimacy shared with
lips on soft skin of neck, chin on a shoulder
in a gentle hug from behind
holding her close
while she cried and she cried
at the loss of before; loss of the bind
of blood, of soul, that he’d believed so real
All on her whim; all gone now. A living dust,
a dirty past lining the shelves, the remnants of her,
still clogging his flat as he tries to accept
that this space now is his.
“We” no longer exists.
Mug, chip and all – cold coffee,
immoveable stains –
that mug is “he”.