Echo In An Empty Room

It’s been two months, and I still can’t close the blinds

or tear my watering eyes away from the door.

I imagined your arrival so many times that

my mind has started confusing it with a memory.

I’d picture you standing there in my living room

with your hair tied loosely in a bun, and your petite legs

peeking out from underneath the hem of my tee shirt.


Everyone tells me that it gets easier.

That I’ll forget you over time, but I don’t want to.

They say that the first month without you is the hardest,

but I’ve found that every day that passes is harder

to survive than the one before.


There’s something missing along my neck

just between my ear and shoulder.

Years ago, that place held your head as you slept

through a drive from Augusta to Boston.

Now it cups my pillow and occasionally hosts

the hands of a one night stand as they wrap angrily around,

trying to squeeze the life back into me.


Last night, I erased our names from the corner of my mirror

where I had written them in red lipstick hoping it would

stain the glass permanently. It didn’t. I wonder

if it’s the meat or muscle memory that my heart is made of

which holds you, stained, inside of me.