It was daytime... Or maybe night.

Only the shy breathing
Of a distant star
Pervaded the solid air,
(Or did it simply puncture glass?)
Awkwardly wreathing
Its cowering light
Through my vacant stare.

I felt trespassed
In chambers unbearably
Emptied of you.
My ill-fitting freedom
Somehow too stiff, too new.

I was burning... Or maybe cold.

The fireplace smouldered.
Were they embers, or memories
Glimmering amid the coals?
A cricket crooned etudes
Of a thousand and one trysts
He witnessed in these,
Now silent, walls
Once shared by two solitudes.

All that remains is a clot
Of mementos congealed in time.
It is life, I suppose... Or not.