Freeloader

In this tiny,
empty-of-you
room, I watch the
clock tick backwards.
Street-light only
on the block, all
the windows dark.
My eyes search
the gloom for the
wet halo of your hair
in sun, my nose
longs for the mint of
your laugh, my
body moves to the
sag where you once
slept beside me.
All of me reaches
to where you are
not. Your goneness
fills me. I should
charge you rent.

published in Storyteller’s Refrain