My mind, the corner I have kept for you

has become a shrine I no longer wish to visit

yet heed and pray before each night.

My prayers are not gifts nor sweet nothings;

they are not even prayers. They are misshapen

thoughts, ounces of love without weight.

There is nothing for me here anymore

but ghosts in black coats. Still, I talk out loud

like you’re still around, as if you can hear me

through the soft membrane of my brain

or through the mirror, lipstick stained.

I thank God your fist never found me;

only the walls behind me and still

the shrine gleams in dismal, in miserable

and my prayers, lost and found, dedicate

themselves to building a church from what’s left.

A church which echoes in empty, godless flickers

because I’m beginning to miss the fact

there is nothing left.