The sun shone on her for so long
That her absence is drawn on my walls.
A silhouette of where she once stood
Is painted there while her scent still lingers.
I’m left to resume dinner reservations for one
And attend the parties of my single-serving friends
While listening to them talk of the glories of
Being single or married or dulled by alcohol to not care.
Coleman Hawkins and his saxophone blow “Don’t Love Me”
And the echo of the loving monikers I was once called
Are hatefully marked out with red crayon or her blood, I’m not sure.
For now I’m just another single so and so.
