Sometimes, I feel that you are a jar
Half-opened, contents
Half-spilled onto the carpet so that, no matter how much I'll try to take it back,
I'll still smell and taste you when I lie down in the empty space that
Accommodates me so well in steep curves
And jotted shadows.

Who is captive?

Who is free?

And, later when walking:

I will look into the pocket of a jacket—of this dirty night
(almost blotting out the stars)
And still find your remnants; the sea salts
Lingering in the very corners
And the cold air which blows through the hole
From which you escaped for the last time.

It murmurs wetly in my ear and
Stops me lightly with no hands.