The Earth rumbles, as it always does
at rush hour, but this morning
no-one hurries to save the frames
from their dancing walls.
Outside, your footsteps tread the gravel,
quieter and quieter now. She’s forgotten
to lift me, her eyes pinned
to the place you’d stood.
I imagine you turning back, but
as my toes grip the orange tiles,
especially cold today, I see the reflection
of a ghost in the window.
Months later, in the dark hours, I hear
the piano call to me. I run downstairs
but find no-one.
One day I try on your combat boots,
refuse to take them off, stomp around
to scare the silence, rather than wait
in your shadow.
Someone forgets to pull apart the curtains.
They stand there kissing each other,
making us all envious of such affection.
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