Superstition and romance lie in tatters at your feet. You have arrived with a plum and left with subtlety. I kissed your cheek and felt your lips at the corner of my mouth; I would watch you at your balcony if the landlord had repaired it. I am not built for such directness and clarity as trickled from your head. Other thoughts creep in. History drags itself about memory. A girl serves you coffee with shaking hands. An old flame puts itself out once and for all. The thin plume of smoke stretches outwards and upwards with deliberate purpose. You wish it well as your hand, laced through mine, loses strength and intent. We wait for our next meeting with weighted brows and sated breath. I sleep under a patterned blanket and a passport photograph. A thumbprint blushes your cheek. One day I will read in your living room.
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