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Just Another Room

the unmade bed;

the scent of lavender candles

that cannot mask

the scent of your cologne

and the day that you always seem to have;

that creeping chill of November,

with its tender fingers

tracing the contours of my  nape

and the back of my legs;

the cruel light of the full moon,

invading this sacred space

and illuminating what is there

and what is not…


What is there?

Larry the Lizard, up on the ceiling;

the painting that Paul whipped up

the day before your birthday,

swirls of colour — red, white, and yellow –

that somehow reminded you of me

when I was still happy;

and the book I gave you

that I’m sure you never read.


What’s not there?

Two suitcases and all your clothes

and some of your shoes;

your toothbrush; the post its on the walls,

filled with the thoughts in your head

that you promised one day

will go into your book;

and our photo in front

of the Sydney Opera House

that day in July, 2007.


What made this place so sacred

is gone and now.

It’s just another room with a view

of the mountains in the day

and the city lights at night,

just another room

with a toilet and a bath,

and closet space for two

and enough book shelves

for book lovers

who no longer love

each other.


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