Absence of Colour

The dressing-table clock has knelt
in prayer, unwound since February.
Underneath pale skin, a persistent
sense of sadness develops potency.
I fear it will surface to my face, where
it will manifest in tears I'd rather hide.

Another clotted day curdles to a close.
The house has fallen into silence
and I am confined, with only the moan
of walls to remind me I am not alone.
Grandma called it 'settling in' - when
the centre of a structure fell asleep.

I wonder what you may be doing-
whether you are smiling privately
and ignoring an insistent loneliness
like I do, between laughter and talk
of foolish things. I imagine being
a painting to which eyes are drawn,

or a photo of buttons on the coat-tails
of love— but I seem to be unfastened,
uncertain of the clever word, aware
of myself and convinced that love
will soon rise and slam the door—
leaving me alone, with me.

So these words kneel on paper
like barcodes to be deciphered
when I'm gone— while I struggle
to accept my life's peculiarities.
I've been an empty packet
aloft in nasty weather.

But as darkness mourns an absence
of colour and daylight's voice is silenced,
I wonder whether I began at the end
and moved backwards— to now
where the mere existence of you
will cure me of all this.