When you departed,
I was sitting by the riverside,
skin sizzling into copper crisps,
UV glory adorning my
upturned head with sovereignty.
I kissed you adieu,
watched your crown of curls
bouncing with every long stride,
already tasting your return on
my lips.
Ah, numbers—my hatred renewed.
Days flitter past my lens,
shutter into still-shots,
sunny moments with no warmth,
cold, sullen nights with liquid
trailing a fiery path in my chest—
each a still frame of your absence.
I broil fish in your favorite pan,
take your coffee mug to work,
drink your secret gin out of spite,
and wear your jacket
like a desperate plea.
I walked when you left.
Now I cycle cobblestone streets,
the chilly bite of slow decay
freezing my sunken face,
parking by the riverside, where
your green eyes flashed in
goodbye.