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”.

 

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