By Liz
Date: 2003 Mar 23
Comment on this Work
[[2003.03.23.05.29.12138]]

Broken

His clothes are in our room
his jacket is still slung over a chair
in the hall
his cologne hangs heavy in the air
and in the empty impression
on the other side of my bed.
The shattered glass of last night
sparkles in the stark morning light
I cut my finger
as I clean up the shards
and when I lick the wound
I taste whiskey;
for an instant
I can taste him,
smell him,
and the yearning to be held fast,
locked agaisnt his chest
is visceral, it hurts
to live and breathe without him
and I would give anything
if we were not
broken.