This is not blue, this skirt, this T-shirt,
Only an idea of blue,
A double, changeling, matching twin,
A duplicate of what we all agree
To call azure, cerulean, cobalt or,
In the extreme, ultramarine - or blue.

There your abandoned clothes lie disarrayed,
Unbuttoned, untidy as your habit, slack,
In the shadow which is not here to stay,
They smell faintly still of you,
Bear still your elbows’ snug imprint,
Say nothing, hold their sober breath.

All those things you wished to say
But never said: why this so happened
And how it came about. Was it from need,
Forgetfulness or even love?
If you had died by now - or merely
Gone to wash your hair.
They do not say.