He left the unmade bed
and the desk’s dark clutter.
The ceiling was still gray
But,
everything had to be the same.
The crib was naked.
He turned and watched the curtains dance,
sensuously.
The bathroom was sterile.
He lit a candle,
in remembrance,
to remember.
He had to hang her stockings,
to remember.
His cigarette went out.
He lit another,
properly placed it in the ashtray.
He was careful to apply the correct amount of lipstick
to the filter.
He heard the phone ring,
heard it say,
I’m Sorry, and
it won’t be the same.
No, he said,
and hung up,
feeling sick.
He stroked the cigarette,
and the right mixture of ash
fell silently,
and replaced some dust
his moving had disturbed. 
