Morning
Flecks of glass across hardwood
shimmering in refreshed morning light
like faux emeralds.
Chair legs rest
splintered and sharp
near the toppled kitchen table
that you bought with her.
Looking down
knuckles: green and yellow
with blistery red accents.
Your eyes are red too
like burst fireworks
or spider webs.
Spent, you sit
on an old wine stain
the carpet carries
letting an empty home fill your head
with silence deserved.
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