She moves beside him in his bed

like a restless phantom limb.
She is really gone but he can still feel her
not just beside him but also
in his heart
in his head.
He wears a prophylactic wall
’round his prosthetic capacity to love.
He left his desire
to caress
inside her traveling gloves.
But he doesn’t miss her
naw, she was no thing
to him
she was everything.
His days are filled with
successive activities
and his nighttimes too
cuz when he stops for even a moment
lethargy ensues.
He’s become a fraudy artificial.
He has the robot blues. — Something He Told Me, by Annette Marie Smith