After
 

I look for signs of you in the morning -
red blotches becoming brutal evidence,
teeth marks to abrade just under the curve of
one half-moon breast -
and find nothing but smooth, pristine betrayal.
Soft, this shell so carefully vacant.
There is no symptom of your presence having been.

I look for signs of you in the morning -
regret erecting tall shadows to shroud my eyes,
guilt casting its gossamer web across my skin -
but my reflection offers no solid proof,
and my lips are pale, bloodless things
that refuse whispers of your name.

I look for signs of you in the morning -
the pull of gnawing loneliness at your absence,
or the searing gasp of relief to find you gone -
I look while the coffee burns an acrid trail down my throat,
my eyes close,
and all I can think to want in this world
is just a few more moments allowed for slumber.

I look for signs of you in the morning -
nothing left to look for,
you've burned it all away -
so I cough, familiar that sound,
sip my coffee, and light another cigarette.
I think I will be coughing on the day I die.
Suddenly it is very, simply, sickly easy
when I step back, pull inward,
and even your face is fading with the dawn.

I look for signs of you and wonder still -
with an absent sort of curiosity
(I wonder if it will rain today, or if the paper's yet arrived?) -
if next time you'll be generous enough,
giving or kind enough,
to leave me at least the reality of a single scar.



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