A picture of the past,
a jack-in-an-old-box
holding twenty years
of letters and poems
takes me by surprise.
The room where I sit
cross-legged on the floor
becomes the room where
we last breathed together:

Your breaths were slow,
deep and strained,
the air of a liar
filling your lungs
as you struggled
to speak the truth
you’d kept away from me
for so long.
My breaths were screaming,
gasping and choking
on your confession.
You knew how deep I was in
but you let me fall
onto your bed of lies
while a young heart
rested in your care, trusting.
The way you looked at me
was only the reflection of
my own eyes –
but I didn’t know it.
And I stood in the doorway
after a rainy, sleepless night,
and watched you drive home
to her.

When I turned to go in,
I was sitting
cross-legged on the floor
while your picture
burned in the ashtray
and I noticed
its raining tonight.

© 2003/ice