We listened to the ceaseless tick of the clock in the hall
and spoke about growing old together. You said,

“It wouldn’t be so bad as we thought.”
“Birds,” you claimed, “have both wings and feet.”

When I woke the air was filled not with the scent
of your cologne, nor the gentle hum of blues riffs. 

All that now remains are sheets that lay scattered,
crumpled, like the restless sea and the faded lily.

Its petals mark the days, one at a time
falling in heaps upon the nightstand

and I press each between the pages
of the book you abandoned, half finished.

If only you had left your shadow behind as well,
so that in your absence I could still trace
                                                       the outline of your body.

– Heather Joinville