it was a cold midwestern night
when the pastor of the town wondered about your departure.
the fragment of your life you let me know
didn’t allow me to answer.
the agony
almost made bearable by tasteless jokes and a cigarette.
your unwanted hand
made me remember the feeling
of a ritual salvation.
despair and celebration,
the floor misses the sole of your shoes
and even when seasons are still the same
the bell at the door reminds me
the hours to come will bring pain.
the mornings are as cold as the expression on your face.
my legs took me to that place once
and when i did not have them anymore,
that dirty road did not seem so bad after all.
black coffee and three drops of milk
and the tenderness in that wicked man.
your chair seems like a muted epiphany
but the raincoat is still there.
counting cars to spend the time
a loud violence let me whisper that uttering feeling.
i will see through the big green wall
how your charm deceives a drunk man.
what will i do with all this time?
the liquor at the bar and the stories you told.
i’m starting to forget the sound of your voice
and your last name i never asked,
there were always more important things to talk about.
i heard your steps on the concrete.
i tasted your tears, even buried
the clock on the wall stopped ticking.
i was waiting for your visit.