Darkened eyes swell by firelight
until they’re glazed with smoke.
This hollowed heart echoes and it sounds like Bach,
filling the air that your voice used to invade.
I pirouette around the baggage you left
and set your coat by the door–
old ash falls from the pocket.
You came in a cold January snow
but shed layers in April,
your blouson and my warmth
no longer being of use.
Hindsight makes it hard to tell
which of your words were
meant for me.
Porcelain Prose 