I descend the spiral staircase
in my pupil, entering
the orange-glow hallways
where holograms hang suspended
on the gray walls, projections
of names, phone numbers, disjointed
memories of break-ups,
drunken Christmases scattered around
and swept downstream
by an electric current, flooding my nerves.
I see the origins of my back pain.
I see the origins of my twitchy leg:
a blank square surrounded by years of dust.
Your portrait's removal
did nothing to erase muscle memory,
a phantom limb beneath the firmament of skull,
a pile of broken glass, an empty frame -
only my projections remain.
And neither of us are Us, anymore.
I took you off the wall,
but there is still a wall.