Are you ready to be in love again?

'Write me poem',
you asked,
So I gathered up
a few random adjectives,
jotted down some lines about
stars and eyes and roses by other names.
You read it but
it was not enough.
'Write how I make your life complete',

Like how the bed is completed
by your collection of faux silk
and acrylic velvet cushions
that you forbid me to throw on the floor,
And how my bookshelfs were crying out
for weirdly scented candles waxing their
greasy perfume onto first editions
and my favourite dictionary.
How Gangsta rap and Hip-hop
have nicely rounded out my 'too selective' music collection,
And your china faced dolls
have given the box room a much needed creep factor,
with their impartial faces cocked toward me on fractured necks,
with their stiff bodies and floppy limbs and one eye half closed,
in winking.
And doesn't every fridge need
out of date quark curdling around the crumpled foil lid,
and week old baby leaf salad, slimey and black.
Wouldn't I miss all those coffee cups,
under the bed and on every damn surface,
thick ringed in mocha and black and taupe,
some with a hint of green.
And now, I will always stand outside,
shoulders hunched against the wind, hands cupping the guttering match, inhaling in long rapid puffs until I feel dizzy.
How I can not quite picture your face
but see only the hurt in your eyes,
And switching on every light in the house
cannot dispel the darkness,
How no amount of Damon Gough can fill the silence
left behind after you read it.