He was the worst person

who ever lived.

Languid silence brewed

between them, louder

than the everyday drone

of the dishwasher.

Tomorrow he will close the door

with finality, but today

weather the rain

of sharp looks.

Fault left a metallic

taste in the air,

stifling like petrichor

without rain; a November

thunderstorm musty and stale

with the scent of something

not-quite-dead.

Light entered the window

at the wrong angle, always,

defying closed blinds,

hitting possessions scattered

like mocking props from

the lives they had enacted.

Grey words:

I can’t do this anymore.

Tea left on the counter.

Untouched. Tepid.