cigarette constellations on a coffee table

The sun has been waking up on the same side of the bed for years      
screaming its hello through the window      
to fall on the pillow where your memory lies    
imprinted in the dancing sunlit dust      
    
There’s a satin stiletto in the fruit bowl where you left it    
surrounded by the invisible bones of apples I watched waste away      
like the illusion of happiness I used to wear as I took a bite
out of your mouth, your eyes, your soul      
and called it love      
    
My face still wears the ashtray I threw at the wall      
my bloodied hands doing all I could to hold myself together    
beneath your whiskey words      
that were nothing more than the exhale of my own whiskey’d breath      
I meant every word I said and they meant nothing at all      
    
I lie beneath the clear laminate coffee table and trace the pattern      
of cigarette burns, trying to find your face in the burnt constellation      
as though the memory of your ruthlessly tender hands in my hair will look different      
when viewed from a different angle      
    
The more I try to keep you here, the faster you fade away
and the crooked photos on the wall are pictures of strangers
my reflection in the mirror devoid of naïve idealism      
and the romanceless promises of a failed love      
    
The sun has been waking up on the same side of the bed for years      
screaming its hello through the window      
and it’s my fault for not closing the curtains      
getting up and setting your memories alight in the fruit bowl
that once contained the apples of our misery      
    
© Indie Adams 2012