The end of everything

Now we sift through a life

which has imploded,

bitter shards of existence

powdered to dust

as though the sun has penetrated

a tomb long sealed

and we cannot maintain

our resistance to the light.

Your words, chilled, like ice picks,

have struck way beyond the bed,

out into every corner of our love.

Need we make lists?

I’ve never liked that picture…

It’s your vinyl, she’s my cat…

I bought you that Dior…

Who really cares?  Things that mattered

from together years

when every moment meant something

mean nothing anymore.

Jan and Phil cut their carpets

down the middle,

she had the table, he the chairs,

she the spoons, he the forks,

the knives were shared.

No shouting here, though. 

That’s passed.

Everything has passed. 

‘Be happy,’ you tell me,

resurrecting for a moment

the soft voice

you used to use

an age ago,

and opening the door

you say, ‘It’s best.’

You tell me I’m lucky,

I’m free to be alive again,

to be me at last.

​

© Keith Brindle 2024