I glance at the lingerie I used to wear and chuckle.
I’m not bawling inside.
I never did look good in grey and I seem to be insipid in black.
Throw it away.
I can answer my phone without disinclination,
And chew the fat without thinking. That.
You never looked good on me.
We were two things simply measured.
Variables that weren’t directly manipulated, but obstructed.
By circumstances that lacked sense.
An interloper drinking your coffee,
The mental arousals that I perceived as challenges,
Now, elaborate rehearsals.
A drunk’s symphony.
You thought we shared the moon.
Silly. Silly. Boy.
We all share it.
The only real thing we shared was some spit and a napkin.
That is placed neatly next to that lingerie.
In a hovel buried somewhere,
Reeking of rotting fruit and motor oil.
Next to inimitable faces of actors
Auditioning for their next role.