You wake up every morning,
at 6:30, to go to the hospital
where you work with people
who deserve miracles but
sometimes don’t receive them.
I would sit on the steps of the
apartment complex across from
yours and watch as the light
in your bedroom would flicker on
and count the moments until you
emerged from that front door.
What a love is a love like that!
To imagine your movements there
as you fixed your coffee with
a slight amount of sugar,
in order to go about your day.
Oh, how I could smell it, how
I could feel the warmth as you
would smile up, over the mug
and upwards at me.
What a love is a love like that!
Weeks later I sit here.
I am on the same stoop,
looking upwards at your window.
It is almost time for your alarm to
go off. I remember it well.
I stand, turn the corner quickly
before temptation grabs me
and forces me to your door.
My newfound irrelevance has remained
a source of consternation for me.
As I walk home I wonder whether
someone else will walk you to the bus.
Perhaps, you are smiling at that
someone now, over the top of your
slightly sugared coffee.
I open the door to my house.
I can't think of anything else,
only stop and pray that one day
you will perform a miracle
for someone who doesn't
quite deserve it.