After she left Her hairs remained On pillows Indented from her sleep, And my loneliness awakens In a cotton coral next to heckling silence. Her empty wardrobe. Leads my thoughts to Narnia. To be young enough to dream, Yet this head is old And like Narnia I am cold, Following the footsteps of Edmund Laughing at statues Fat on Turkish delight Yet hollow as a Russian doll. Stars no longer help me sleep. The moon is just a sunlit rock. God is a cure for those in denial, And Narnia just a story An empty pine wardrobe With glockenspiel hangers singing my loss. And what of me? What am I? I am a photo Face down on the mantel A face to sicken you A memory like all memories Forgotten so it hurts less.