I busy myself with you

I busy myself with you at times,
I study your lines in my mind and find
my fingers carving out your shape in mid air;
they have a better memory than I do.

I move effortlessly in your direction,
my feet carry me to the corner of this empty room,
where you once stood so close to me.
You chose me, proposed life and things to me.

Trying times are these, struggling to find you.
Where do I start?
I park myself in front of your wardrobe.
Those clothes, hanging, will they just suddenly fill
themselves with you if I look hard enough.

I pick up your old scarf - it still smells of you.
I imagine breathing in your warmth,
the softness of your neck,
it used to feel like home.

In the hallway I see your keys.
I hold them and try to feel the hands that spent
so much time around them.
Nothing.

It’s starting to get cold in here.
I feel a shiver, my voice echoes around
and comes back to me empty handed.

The dusty chandelier seems to stare back at me
through a veil of dirt, like a lifeless corpse.
A blank empty cold stare as if it were looking
through me, saying, “Well, what did you expect?"


The old floorboards creaking under me
feel tortured and parched.
With every step they groan and creak,
like an innocent victim accused of some terrible crime.

I see a haze of light penetrate the curtains.
It comes into the living room like a temporary visitor

treating everything it touches like an object.
In a few hours it too will be gone making way for that

all too familiar, all too comfortable darkness.

The darkness that now fills all the empty spaces you left behind.

The darkness that now sustains me.

The darkness that helps me close my eyes,
explore this place and search for you.

I awake to find you lying next to me.
I turn to see your sleeping face, so peaceful.
I reach out to touch you, then stop myself, no, mustn't disturb you,

You may be searching for me in your dreams as well.

© j4dyd2012