The bricks are freckled with sentiment and

when you were here, they were pinker but now

dirt has settled to stay in my home

but how do i know? my fingers reach toward light and

finding none, toward a switch but in the absence of

fluorescence i am brought once again to believe in the

necessity of the sun

you are gone as well, and without a switch

you look like black letters in envelopes parading insensitively

through my eyes as your fingers search for Colorado

but mine are still here and growing colder despite the

seventy degrees in California

more than you have but i am less than you wanted

your eyes are papier-mâché, crumpled up

newspapers with

obituaries of our memories

stamped, sealed, and sent off

to London, maybe—you said one day we’d go and ninety-seven

days later it turned into never

my fingers pull apart the sodden pages

and hang them up like the tilting question marks you left

unresolved

the pages dry and stiffen up, glue residue hardening the edges

they’re unreadable now.