Recessional II
i step backwards into the summer-swollen sunset, looking
for my shadow where the ghosts wander. may's heat
drizzles onto the pavement, sticky on my shoes tapping out
the familiar route to you. the slanted stop sign creaks as
i swing around the corner, the darkening sky
swirling closer (i can't get away from our january night, dripping
silence cool and clear as a melting icicle). i'm only
a few blocks away, and i thought i saw your footprints, but
they melted with the snow. i can't follow you anymore.
days withered like we knew they would, but still i was surprised
when morning came empty of your shape. now dusk
is heavy around me, dimming to match the color under
my eyelids, and you are disappearing into the dark (i'm so afraid
of the months passing by and by without pause while
you fade away like winter). turning onto your block,
i count the streetlamps like stars, each one scraping up
a spark in me; i'm sinking deeper into midnight,
but you're not here to compose the quiet anymore. another
hour's rotted when i reach your house, and i can see
light coming through the square of curtain in your room, but
it doesn't reach me. i shiver in the cold and turn back;
i cannot kiss you goodbye tonight.