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In any darkness

I can almost see you

dressed in old clothes

I've given away

or stored in boxes

and black bags

precariously stacked

In the dimly lit library

your billion books with

carefully torn paper

marking pages important

before and once

at some point in

your life now gone

Our separate bedroom closets

emptied of every scarf,

dress, shirt, blouse, belt,

nightgown, pajamas, old gloves

all gently holding

who we once were

like an avalanche about to slide

Any time I open that door

I half expect to see you

reading or dozing under

the red wool plaid blanket

lamps blazing, a tissue box

at your side, cold coffee

I can't remember our last kiss