An Old Story: A Tanka Sequence

falling snow
is a singing bird...
the silence
between the two of us
on the long way home

morning mist...
driving alone to work
I struggle
to remember
what we argued about

her last note reads
what remains of us
are the shards
of broken memories…
a sickle moon glowing

what shall I do
with my cold body
left in the dark...
running my fingers through
tangled memories of her

those lips I kissed…
now, my dog and I
lie side by side
in the attic room
brightened by a Bic lighter

Atlas Poetica, 13,Autumn 2012