Rye

My hand still holds pens

That want to write lines,

About you

Though redundant, they are resourceful

They vacate the hole

That drips into my equation,

A lifetime of material to gather from,

An eternity to subscribe on someone

Now sadly defunct

In my future,

I stand on train platforms

Where we once stood,

I drink in public houses

We’d often frequent,

I hold empty glasses to my ear

Place them against my heart

Eagerly trying to discern, 

Movement or a beat

Just,

To make sure

That I can live

Without you.