The morning after you left for
the last time, all the stars
disappeared from the night sky.

Appeared in my breakfast bowl
instead, washed out and shimmering
feebly. The morning after you
left for the last time, the birds
stopped singing. 

Perched inside the crook of my
elbows and pecked my sides until
they bled. Climbed into
my dreams and ripped them open
from the inside out. 
The ache ballooned like a desperate thing.
Like a desperate, wild thing eager to kill.
I stood by the window for hours
and tongued the word love like
it was a language I had never learnt how to speak.

Like you were a sentence I could never
quite arrange the right way. 
The morning after you left for the last time,
even the trees stopped moving.

That was how I knew you weren’t coming back.
Because when you left the entire world
held its breath. Because when you left
I forgot how to breathe completely.