He is Lost
He is lost
Redolent flannel sheets
Parked ashtray
Overused copy of “The End of Mr. Y” on the bedside table
smudges and stains on the wall above the headboard
his case of Red Stripes in my fridge
an old bottle of warming Sensi-touch next to a box of condoms
He is gone
The hair in the sink and stains around the toilet
Cigarette ashes in the bathtub
Dirty bed sheets and piled up dishes
late night sessions of WWC
The sound of him sleeping next to me, loudly
So many pictures and moments spent together and apart
I cling to this one…
An exhausted me, sleeping, hair sprawled all over a reading him,
a kiss on my cheek and his camera fixed on us– a flash.
That’s what I love and will miss.
That’s what will be hard to recapture.
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