To your own devices I left you
Alone by the singing machine
As your voice cleared a lonely
Place in the air, against which I
Had nothing save the silence of
My stare.
The man you swore was
Neither lover nor friend, instead
You said he was either figure
Or shape, a thing to hold beneath
My glare.
Of you was left only your voice,
A home, a mold that is my return
When my words have sunken
Through their weight, then I see
The chasm of my sight, and heed
The rapture of
Your flight.
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