Months pass. A year. You’re here still

haunting what we had, scratching

the phantom limb. Again’s not



some retrievable rush, it’s what

you can hope for: revolution

or another poem. The staircase

home’s a tragic shape.



All we can do is spiral,

describe the loops and watch

the epicentre dim.



What’s left? A bowl of vapour.

Questions. Lights. A love that made you

see things.