handfuls of air

The empty sky pastel blue,

I used to look at it with you,

dreaming of conflicting futures

in the guest room no guest saw

in the house abandoned shortly,

fleeing north to a bitter thaw.

That room, like our relationship,

was always changing function,

rearranging to the current mood,

a series of negotiations

never settled until I dropped

the ultimatum and it shattered,

slow motion shards fanning out.

We see it but we don’t; we look right past it

until we taste glass.

I see that room when I look at the sky.

The longer I stare, the more it fades

into my peripheral, my purgatory

of pink clouds slicing bloody firmament

and blank walls and carpet fumes

and dwindling hope. One question lingers:

How can I escape the sky?