Cleaning Out Your Room

Your unwashed towel holds the hook behind
The door, for three weeks slumping there, unused.
A crumpled bottle, pillows laid askew - 
Relics, untouchable. I’m blank, confused...
It can't be that you're really gone, for you
Breathe air into these breadcrumbs that I find!

You left these things, and so cannot be dead.
But realizing each morning when I wake,
The sunlight taunts your absence through the blind -
To dare imply the world is bright! How fake,
How trite. You were a beacon in my mind,
But you’ve gone dark, and nothing can be said.

John Masella

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  John Masella   would be pleased to hear them