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.