In any darkness
I can almost see you
dressed in old clothes
I've given away
or stored in boxes
and black bags
precariously stacked
In the dimly lit library
your billion books with
carefully torn paper
marking pages important
before and once
at some point in
your life now gone
Our separate bedroom closets
emptied of every scarf,
dress, shirt, blouse, belt,
nightgown, pajamas, old gloves
all gently holding
who we once were
like an avalanche about to slide
Any time I open that door
I half expect to see you
reading or dozing under
the red wool plaid blanket
lamps blazing, a tissue box
at your side, cold coffee
I can't remember our last kiss