The blinds are turned down,
76 slits of dusty light piercing the floor.
The room is lit by an omniscient white glow
Of static from the television,
Left on just to make noise, to fill space.

He lies on the leather couch,
(the one she found for him at the thrift store)
Face down and immobilized by the crude abandonment.
Gin running dry,
He collects his pain in an unwashed glass,
Hoping to turn tears to wine.

He wretches at the thoughts of moving on,
Scared that his heart won't recognize her name,
That he won't remember how he tried not to laugh
When her hair brushed his face and he saw her smile between auburn locks.
He holds on to the eternally stale static,
Pleading for the world to not keep spinning without her.