At night when you were not there

I read my own writing

watch myself getting madder

on increasingly nonsensical scraps of paper.

My poetry is more inspired

and less coherent; infatuation has ceased

to be devotion, sailed past worship,

descended into tear-stained signs and symbols.

I have put myself on suicide watch

since you are not here to do it for me.

My heart claims

every sound in the drive might be you,

even though I told you not to come

my ears listen for the tap on my window

just old-fashioned enough

to be something you would do if you

came back to love me at last.