Door number twelve

I find relics of those past lives and faces
and will never know what compelled
me to forgo those empty embraces
lipstick marks, black hair, golf clubs still
lingering in my eye’s periphery
while I can focus on nothing
and my hands pass over that memory
one endless hour of bruising and bluffing.

— still, the sky is greyer than charcoal
it rains because it wants to
and the sound of your key lost its omnipotence
I wait to be half of that whole
technicolour of gold and green and blue
safe, knowing I am loved in your absence.