Poetry – Done For

July 30, 2011

Done For


And the night doesn’t leave when I wake up

and neither have you. Sprawled on my

empty bed, I’m alone, laying next to you,

scratching my fingers softly across the linen,

through your absent body.

My jeans lay there messily on the floor

at home with everything else.

Light from the curtain-less window

blazes reality, but I still fail to see it.

It’s been a week. You’re still right there

at my finger tips. A subway ride away.

But you’re living on a different world.

Speaking a different language, if at all.

Can I spend all day thinking of combinations?

Calculating the perfect concoction

of grammar, words, and punctuation?

Hypothesise our exchanges and pre-record.

We have slipped from reality into a dream.

I have. You are still there, vivid as last

Saturday. As alive as the weekend before

and the seven days before that.

My eyes scan the floor in a hopeless gesture.

A long black hair lays across the laminate.

You are still alive in fragments. Pieces.

That’s how I enjoy you. Endure you.

I feel the callouses forming and I’m afraid

I can never soften them. Sitting up

I take the hair and lay it in the bin.

As hard as it is, there is a place for everything.

But, I still hope that I will wake up next week

and find another piece of you

that is inevitably done for.




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