6:49 p.m.

the sky still holds its blue
as the sun chews a piece
of orange into the horizon.
eighteen years now
I’ve run up this street
lined on each side with
brown-bricked buildings
like beefeaters protecting
my movement  home
to the vintage apartment
that is called so as the edges
of it aren’t quite edges,
and the dust has collected
to hold a living silhouette.
eighteen years, where did they go,
I’ve come and gone so many
days and nights and in betweens,
the door handle is loose
from so many turns.
the light dims as the threshold
meets my soul. the ghost will
surely meet me tonight, restless
from waiting for the sun
to digest and give over to night.
eighteen years, where did they go?
Olha died many years ago,
and Herbert too, who brought me
candies from a foreign trip.
they were next to me, below me,
the sun is only waiting to set
to find me all alone so that
he can take me down too.

No comments:

Post a Comment