Untitled #13

I've managed to compose your verses
in a poem of single lines
that do not connect
with one another
in the wake of your departure
by way of the fire escape.
You have stolen my last bottle of corona
a pack of cigarettes, a pink lighter
that I've noticed so far.

I've managed to compose some lines
that do not rhyme
nor kiss your temples with praise
we do not connect
in the wake of your departure
by way of the window.
You have left behind letters, the t-shirt
you wore last, a pendant
removed from your neck.

I've managed to set the letters,
bundled in your favorite t-shirt,
on fire, by way of the window
with little praise on my lips
and lines that have retired
into the licking flames,
in the wake of your departure.


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