diagnosis

I don't miss you
it's your afterimage that haunts me
that's what the doctor said,
like the canary
in the cage
over the kitchen table
that used to sing
while I had my coffee-and-cigarettes breakfast.
the canary died last August
I quit smoking in September
everytime I walk in the damn kitchen
I can see the canary
yellow like a tiny standing banana
an apparition imprinted in my retina
as I still smoke in my dreams
and curse myself for starting again
we are prisoners of our habits.
I don't miss you
it's your absence inflated in my head
almost the size of a zeppelin
floating over the neighborhood
casting an ominous shadow on the buildings
like a spider's web dripping blood
on the furniture
on my books
on my clothes.
I don't miss you
you are only a volcano
in my nightmares
trying to burn me and drown me at the same time.
it's your laughter that invades
my house like a storm of razors
like distortion from huge amplifiers
of a rock concert
of the previous century
reverberated in my mind to levels of insanity.
I don't miss you
your only strength is my obsession
with your myth
at the expense of truth.