because this lamp shade could mean anything,
structured glass, cream and brown.
because it isn't sitting on your desk,
the lights aren't off
and you still aren't writing.

because the wall clock means nothing
though you picked the red
to match -- i don't know what -- certainly not ink
or a stained book that doesn't lie open as
i am laid open.

here is the desk.
it doesn't open the way hands do.
i have tried every key, but there are too many and
i would ask, but you never answer your messages. i am still writing
but the words waver after a while, hand-written
because i have spoken of this again and again
yet only paper answers pen.

it could be that this is not a room,
and the floor is not flat, and no patterns exist
in the tiles, and i am not seeing anything
that we used to own. i thumb a book of names
that you keep in your top drawer because
you would phone them often, and for a while
they called me instead, asking for you, and i would
explain how their voices permeated your voice,
how we all became one sound in the end,
talking walls, talking frames, talking pictures
because the picture frames are not down from the walls, they are
right where you left them.