In the impalpable grey
Of a night long fallen
I chase your ghosts
Undressing piously
By the refrigerator door.
–
The rooms are unmade,
Crippled in passage.
Stacks of pots
Swarm the kitchen
The aromas
No longer appetizing
–
I catch you there
Amongst panicked dingy tiles,
In your robe
Sniveling, sleepless,
Swooning on the kitchen floor.
–
There is no one to cook for,
No one to object or postpone.
You’ve pared your life down
Now there are only bones
And a disapproving cat
That is more coquette than conservator.
–
I am only a voice
Primordial, vacant
Tethered in an inexplicable nexus
Around your pale tremulous throat
I don’t want to kill you after all
But it may already be too late.
mindlovemisery 