Yesterday was the last day of summer.
And it makes sense
you weren't with me
then. Or even
on this rainy afternoon-
you're teaching me to live
apart from you, which has reduced to
breakfast dishes crowding the nightstand,
the TV droning with some Julie Christie drama,
my black hair unwashed for a fifth day.
After all what's grief to someone
who never tires of longing
except a manner of existing
in the present, where nothing is derivative.
Strange. It's much easier now
the scene of when I first saw you -
crossing a city street on a busy September afternoon.
The one perfect moment, before language.
by: David Semanki