Let the dust fall down
(cover the old photographs)
only then you'll understand that it makes no sense soaking your cheeks with tears

for I am here.
I'm gone, but I am here
in the shadow of your hair
in the footsteps of your grief.

It's been months since you've dropped to your knees in disbelief.
Collected the silky cocoons of your pain,
tore them apart (the bitterness of a pillow gone cold)
and knitted a blanket.
It's been months, and you still wrap it around yourself to make it through the night.



Your curls impossible to comb.
Make-up unused.
Pink razorblade dry for days and days.



Wake up. The walls are bleeding to hear your laughter again, for the sound of your cry has filled each and every corner
and that little hole in the kitchen.

Wake up. The birds are no longer coming to your window.
They wouldn't find any breadcrumbs there anyway.

Wake up. Bottles of perfume sitting empty on the shelf.



Wake up.
Take my shirts out of the closet and empty the drawer. Burn the socks,
wash your hands and watch the ashes dissapear.


I'll be here.

I'll fill the room as cigarette smoke and the smell of morning coffee.



I'll be here.
In the moment of silence before telephone rings.

Between washed and ironed, folded sheets.