Ego

You can weed out the rubbish but she's not here,
the lights are out, the coffee is cold.
Red lipstick stains the mug, the curtains are fusty
with smoke. She's not here.
Writing was an art when blinded and bound to naivety.
If you listen close her words still linger
in the copper walls but
she's not here. I hope you understand through the riddles,
that you're reading letters frozen in time.
Brand new or reused,
in this house of daggers,
she's not home.