The coffee cup has a ring of cold dark lace, The dust is dancing in a shaft of golden light. I watched your shadow leave this hollow space, And now the afternoon is turning into white. They say that time is just a curving line, A river running nowhere fast enough. But sitting here, I feel the weight of mine, The heavy, aching salt of quiet stuff. One hour later and the walls are grown, They stretch into the rafters of the sky. I’m sitting in the silence of the bone, One hour later, and I’m asking why. The neighbor’s dog is barking at the breeze, A paper bag is scuttling down the street. I count the swaying of the willow trees, To keep the rhythm of my own retreat. It isn't that I miss the words you said, Or the way you pulled your jacket to the door. It’s the static hum that lingers in my head, The ghost of footsteps printed on the floor. One hour later and the walls are grown, They stretch into the rafters of the sky. I’m sitting in the silence of the bone, One hour later, and I’m asking why. Just sixty minutes past the end. Just sixty minutes deeper in. One hour later. It’s quiet now. It’s quiet.