Out of Frame

The green tea-cup, concealed behind the cupboard-door,
quietly fills with sorrow
remembering your lips.
On the back of the bathroom-door, a hung towel, desiccated and worn,
thirsts to forget your skin.

Shadows, like gallows, form knots around the memories of where we once laid,
The sun, golden through the glass then,
painted happiness across your face.
Like breath against a cold January window, the memories
fade,
A lighter lost, hidden in the snow, the numb flame that burns for no one

Impassive and dark, the solitary earring made of wood,
A photograph - the malediction - depicting a portentous prediction;

One in which you were out of frame

And an errant hair, like a pariah in the corner lay,
Gathering dust, they're all that remain.

a portent