He hangs her letters, says
to remember beauty
to not forget what's missed;
from one who says
we all look behind us too much.
I spread the urge to read her scramble of words
how he read them, until it touches the urge
to touch his profile;
in his peripheral, I'm not really here
yet she is, all over the room.
He is and he is, her too,
faces dogging my empty days.