I Sit At My Desk Alone

I sit at my desk alone

as I did on many Sunday

afternoons when you came

back to me,

your arms aching for me,

though they smelled

of other women

and your sweet head bowed

for me to rub

and your heart bursting

with things to tell me,

and your hair

and your eyes

wild.



We would embrace

on the carpet

and leave

the imprint of our bodies

on the floor.

My back is still sore

where you pressed me

into the rug,

a sweet soreness I would never

lose.



I think of you always

on Sunday afternoons,

and I try to conjure you

with these words

as if you might

come back to me

at twilight

but you are never coming back

never.



The truth is

you no longer exist.

Oh you walk the world

sturdily enough:

one foot in front

of the other.

But the lover you were,

the tender shoot

springing within me,

trusting me with your dreams,

has hardened

into fear and cynicism.



Betrayal does that

betrays the betrayer.



I want to hate you

and I cannot.

But I cannot

love you either.



It is our old love

I love,

as one loves

certain images

from childhood

shards

shining in

the street

in the shit.



Shards of light

in the darkness.