Wanting me, you went,
And nothing left more,
Long after the silence,
With a tear on the sill
Following me into the dark,
When the quiet is still,
And the weight of me
Sits on the armchair
An echo fading out of the room,
Where the shadow of holding on,
Becomes the quietest bloom
And breath returns to winter air
Grey dust motes drift across the cold floorboards,
Settling like fine ash over forgotten chairs,
While a lonely spoon counts the forgotten seconds
Ticking softly inside the kitchen wall.
