The Way of Things

Looking out over the quietening town,
as couples pair off for the night,
and shadows collect in places out of reach,
he stands alone behind the pane.
He'd known that it would end,
it had to, she'd said.

But now the night lies sprawled
across the self-conscious bed once theirs,
in strangled colours that light denies.
The crumpled scents on the linen tell
that she has left; but they don't tell him when.

Years on he would stand in that same spot:
it's light that windows time, that carves
the lateness of the afternoon in half.
He still remembers bits of their endless plans -
but never once can he picture her face.

Yet it was her smile that had drawn
the one on him, all those afternoons,
the light drifting in, this same dingy room
where he now dreams. The shade is drawn,
affording him mercy: the darkness inside.

He has long since lost touch with her,
choosing not to write. Now he resigns himself
to the ungraspable yet inevitable presence
of her, there in him - to the way of things, tonight.