This is a poem...

This is a poem of regret, for
imaginary futures. A letter torn to
pieces in anger, and the apathy of
drifting apart. This is a poem
of disaffection.

And inventory taking- sorting stuff
into piles- this one useful, this one
to throw away. Neatly categorized. Setting
myself free, as the bright blue sky winks at me
from beyond the bars on my window.

Pens that somehow still write, moisture-wrecked
photo albums, bills, business cards, key rings,
corrupted memory sticks (what should they be called,
really?), and that scrap from that torn letter.
Mostly what is left is the drifting apart.

You are long gone, of course. Torn letters
are burnt bridges, and pieces saved are embers eternal.
And I have moved on, too- I write a bit (heartbreak is
good for you there, they say), drink a bit. I live
now, like then. Mostly, there is the drifting.

Tomorrow, I will throw away all this. The stuff is sorted,
there is space now and a metaphor somewhere. But this
is not a poem of closure; alienation is not the quick, sharp
stab of heartbreak. Nothing changes tomorrow.
This is a poem about a mundane sadness.

Somehow, when I sniff at that photo album,
it reeks of defeat.