Your eyes are still a cliché, Indian Ocean blue
slightly out of focus, whispering of the sea,
seeing nothing.

Did all the things I prophesize fall true?

Back in December when our bones froze together
and the trees outside the window snapped their
empty twigs.

Now our gardens are a heaven’s halo::
wisteria falls like mountain’s secrets,
as you untangle.

I see you walking your pinched faced daughter
and still get woken by your woman’s tantrums,
burrowing through me.

When you’re there, the wall between us radiates
your heat, but I think you never really cared
for me.

My body went on stoppage when we split,
as if the last ounce of love had left it dead
and crumbling.

I arranged my pain with copper colored youths
watched them dive into me again and again
until it proved exhausting.

Today, I saw you from the window, planted
a kiss, refelt the heat , stroked the air for
particles of guilt;

noticed nothing but the echo of your passing.

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