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.