Nothing

Only nothing, empty rooms, uneventful days
the wrong arms, wrong food, wrong voice.
I lay my head on the vast soft seat
of an armchair, in supplication or despair.

Without her I unravel,
I wander the aching house
as if she could be found
in some box, some cupboard.

Only my bed is still home,
where merciful dark shrouds me,
carries me out of gravity
into dreams of timelessness.

I'll pretend to be me,
eat and drink,
say some words
and wait.