Abigail Michelini, Secret

In the hairline crack between heavy lids 
and the waiting world 
leaks the life I left, 
running in thin streams 
from another room. 
                              They say every moment is forged forever 
                              as starlight speeding towards empty space 
 
and I know it. In its wasting trace I see smearing: 
                            myself in the bloom of belief 
                            and the husband of my youth, 
                            standing before me, doing dishes.