what's left but the rain outside coming down 
panging the metal drains 
what's left but the dozen silverware, 
clean, sitting in a drawer 

having once been graced by you on my floor 
in front of the TV, we shared late nights

what's left but the other tenants 
that walk outside in the hall past my door, 
making me stir, thinking it's you come to see me
what's left but the pictures of you.. 
they are my hurting in these times 
staring long minutes while the clock tics, and tics 
with my heart beating in time 

what's left after I pull myself up, 
walk to sink and dash my face with cool water--
and mistake a noise from the direction of the bedroom
as the sound you lying there your hair splayed across the bed 
like some work of art

what's left but for my love for you to keep poping up
to keep replaying what we once had. 
what's left but God and the fact that 
he will come to play what God loves to play.