Wednesday, January 20, 2010

making coffee

i want to close my eyes
and not see your face.
i want to see the red-black-blue
of the back of my eyelids
and not the floor of your apartment
or the sheets on your bed
or the view from your terrace.

it's strange the things that contain you.
some are predictable - a certain song,
a poem, a shirt. others are more
surprising: the light of early morning
through the window
or process of making coffee. somehow
pouring boiling water into a french press
calls you forth against my will.

i do it anyway. you are there, hovering,
but i've lived with your spectre for so long
that it doesn't really matter anymore
that you're not actually here. i'm trying
my best to go about my business
and ignore the way your ghosty eyes
look at me out of everyone else's.

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