The building is white,
ivy eating its way up the broken walls,
windows small
and scratched.

She is not here.
Not beside me in bed
nor in the room
at all.

It has happened

This is my story.
It is mine alone because I am the one who needs
to tell it.
I am the one who is still here,
no longer stage right but

I am on the bathroom floor
screeching,
Tippi shaking me back into the world.