I’ve missed the last goodbye, this time to
count the lights still on at the hotel. I can tell when
the wind changes and its time to go. a
woman closes her eyes and her boxes are
packed by hurried hands. I can’t pretend to
wane and wax poetic about a dormant sadness, wrung hands and
“well, at that age”
things
start to disappear
the corner coffee shop, a husband’s whisper, a face
painted and molded by your own hands. those moments of
loneliness, a scream in an empty room, the
disappearance of tomorrow. a gold piece of
jewlery, a black and white photo, pennies spilled on the
floor to place bets and to lose. the smell of curled hair, orthopedic
Socks, bringing hazelnuts in chocolate on a napkin. each
card signed with a delicate hand, each laugh lingering longer.
I walk Brooklyn streets and wonder when you did the same
I don’t feel you here, time unmarked by your absence, but I wonder sometimes
watching the moon rise through the curtain, if you thought the same — a
universe so far can feel close, like needlepoint
lines, when pulled tight together.