Guitar with Missing Pillows

an eye at the end of my penis
saw your hips clench convulsively together
at three o'clock in the afternoon.
a sharp noise had diverted our attention and i went limp
with exhaustion while you began to pray.
your knuckles looked hammered onto each other
when i rose to check the door.
3 carpenter's nails were wedged into the jamb,
and from each nail hung a loose piece of small paper and i
dared to read the writing.
secrecy having always been a game you misunderstood,  i wouldn't
tell you what i saw,
but when i returned to your room, you were gone.
the guitar you had been playing was on the bed,
strings still loosely wrapped around a neck,
impressively out of tune.
in the shadows of the late day, i saw the fruit bowl without fruit
left in place after your departure.
the old wall paper embellished with the flight of a bird continued to
cover up the fading paint.
a rising wind blew outside the window.
you must have cleared away my clothes, since i couldn't find them,
and all the pillows were gone.