God save the Queen

the ghost

of your perfume

clings to every single

nervous thread

that

connects the ceiling

to the floor

the floor

to the hall

and the hall

to the towel rack

on the bathroom wall

strands made of quiet tears

strands of tirade laden hurt driven spit

strands made of gone

strands made of memories

and now

your presence

is burnt into

the very air

candles

made of dead hope

moulded amid mangled

signal regret

and despair

a pale stuffiness

all the hanging on

all the letting go

left in a stuffy paleness

a hasty sun

shunned moment later

it's thirty eight degrees

in the shade

the cold blast

of leftover sorrow

puts a chill upon my brow

i can see

lipstick stained

cigarette butts

in the ash tray,

your shoes next

to the couch a

trail of clothes

from or to the

bedroom, that musty

spent scent

sweat stained chills

hate fuck thrills

empty but for the spills

on the sheets

that

match the burns

on the carpet

that

match the burns

in our heads

and

the madness

and the fire

in our eyes,

our tongues

and

our hearts

and so

dry of a once fiery eye

and hard of

very scorched heart

all i have left is

more flowers

in another dustbin

from the future

we

never had