There′s a mark on the bookshelf where your photograph slept, an unread page with your last underline.
The window holds the breath of you — the way you laughed pressed into the glass like a fingerprint.
I put the kettle on and listen for a step that never comes, count the seconds by how the light moves across the bed.
The violin answers, higher now, a careful sob, and every small thing becomes a map of absence.
I press my ear Do not mention sound effects or instruments in the lyrics There′s a mark on the bookshelf where your photograph slept, an unread page with your last underline.
The window holds the breath of you — the way you laughed pressed into the glass like a fingerprint.
I put the kettle on and listen for a step that never comes, count the seconds by how the light moves across the bed.
The window holds the breath of you — the way you laughed pressed into the glass like a fingerprint.
The coat you left hangs on the chair, a small argument against the empty doorway, a coffee cup at four.
Still warm on a salsa, seem like a memory, rising and gone.
Sun finds the nick in the floor where we used to stand, traces the arc of your footsteps.
I can no longer follow, I left asleep where your scent clings to the cloth.
My thumb finds the place your hand used to rest.
The violin answers, a thin ache beneath the wrist, and I fold the silence into my chest.
I stand where midnight learned your name, the morning keeps the hollow of your frame.
Your song is on the radio, soft and raw, your coffee cup is ghost-worn.
You are gone.
There's a mark on the bookshelf where your photographs left, an unread page with your last underline.
The window holds the breath of you — the way you laughed pressed into the glass like a fingerprint.
I put the kettle on and listen for a step that never comes.
Count the seconds by, how the light moves across the bed.
A thread from your sweater loops on my nail.
I pull it like a truth I cannot hold.
The violin answers, higher now, a careful song, and every small thing becomes a map of absence.
I stand where midnight learned your name, the morning keeps the hollow of your frame.
Your song is on the radio, soft and raw, your coffee cup is ghost-worn.
You are gone.
♪
My friend, I hear.
♪
♪
