Taken from my collection 'Lines'.
Headlights move past the slits
in the blinds
and makes lines
slice across his face,
Monitored by his sleep
like a newborn.
When he dreams, I don’t.
When he turns, I wake.
If release is a must and sleep is the entrance,
the no entry sign speaks louder than me.
His noises are silent to me now
but the silence still deafens.
I have no duvet but I’m thankful
to the cold that makes me numb.
He’s never absent from this bed,
or the furrows of my eyes.
An oil portrait with a surface once glossed,
now left to hang, and dry
and thin, the skin that clings
onto the bones of my cheeks,
and my brows above
pen one depleted soul.