What do I do with mere imprints
when you are gone?
The dust over the neglected suitcases
billows over my thoughts
the gleaming vase seems in danger of developing
I water the potted plants
and write aimlessly
not seeing the colourless salty ink staining
the cat’s bowl
I wrote the darned poems on you
till they included crinkled parts of me
the gaps between our skins
my masses of confusion remain curled around your fingers
Sort them out before you leave
ever heard of contented dregs of coffee?
What do I do with myself now?
A drowned lily in a glass