yet it is ours:
your bed (the one in which i fell
in love with you) remains unmade
and all those little things to be done
remain undone
the useless shuffle of your papers
and shifting of some many things
that are not your body
seems so much less than our nothings
of today - our nothings of lying
softly beside
that bitter coffee that you left behind
is still warm - like this spot here
on your bed where i sit and wait for you
to return from your somethings
so that you and i can once again have
our nothings
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