sweeping up

afterwards, sweeping
up the glass
of you, the broken
pieces of us,
the splinters
and shards of me
on the floor. pushing
it all with a
soft broom towards
the center of
the room, and sliding
me and you into
the pan, letting
it all fall into
the bin, dropping
memory to the bottom,
pressing open and
then close with a
reluctant foot
upon the pedal.