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, only one still lingers

like a lost and lonely cloud:

how can I escape this sky?