I sit on the floor in the shower
cascade over bone and taut skin
those are not tears
I promise
just the fall of the water on my face
why would I cry?
in admission of sorrow or loss
there are stages to grief and I am stuck
between shock and depression
sallow skin in harmony with sadness
I cannot paint you
in the colours of the world and spring
my brush will not follow my fingers
and the smears of painted remorse
are my sole expression
do you remember we wanted
to take photographs?
together with some talented artist
making mementoes of ourselves
and the adoration new shared
water washes salt from my face
deluge of dolorous disenchantment
I would weep and wail
but I promise you I am not
although that might be a lie
the water has become cold now
and still I sit
skin on the plastic comfort of the tub
I am still not weeping
those tears merely a hallucination of the mind
under the chill and on the firm
arrogance of departure