Beige curtains
Vaguely translucent
Hang
Like unyielding static
Unable to let go
Of the Past
That was an Us
In a house
Standing
Stoically—

Allows enough light
To invade
One room
Permitting
A sip of coffee,
The reading of a book,
But only so long
For memories
Of you
Your walk,
Your voice,
A seemingly easy
Promise turned
To inescapable betrayal—

If we had only known
How fragile a love
We claimed to want,
We might have been
More gentle and
Afraid of
Dark corners
Of our attraction
To failing
Then perhaps
This half would be
One,
The empty chair would
Match the filled one,
And this poem would not exist.