My lover is long since gone but his face appears
beyond all the doorways that frame my life,
chalky with incredulity at my faithless lies.

That disbelief lingers even now, reflected
in the face of the stranger staring out of my mirror.
My kohl-rimmed eyes are stained berry-red with guilt,
an ache that pounds through sullen temples,
splintering bone to leave blunted wits scattered
on the kitchen floor amongst the remnants
of month-old takeaway cartons. Alcohol blunts
the edge of grief as I listen to ghost stories
only I can hear until night collides with morning
and only spit swills in the bottom of my glass.

My grip becomes flaccid as I slump into sleep
to dream of your face and the accusing glance
you shot over your shoulder as you left that day.