The chandelier sways between the empty coffee cup from the last night I saw you
and the photo frame where you are no longer,
It's just her and me in this room full of carpentry books.
At night it seems that she looks at me
while I remember the profile of your face projected on the wall
and the curves of your body seen from the bed we share so much.
But there is no more crying
there is no more pain to complain about,
just boredom and reluctance.
I even think the spider is dead.
