the dustbin is a bit more full of empty cigarette packets,
newspapers lie scattered about,unread,
and somewhere a woman is there,
present in her absence,
her face hiding in the empty mirror,
her smell wafting on the air,
her eyes looking from behind the faceless glasses…

the curtains are open more often,
as if inviting the sun in,
attempting to fill a delicate void with light,
and music plays a bit louder,
perhaps a futile attempt to drown out other sounds.