Can there be anything more beautiful than the momentary
diversion of a streetlamp’s flicker? The way it brightens those naked
corners of the city, and the leaves and dirt that droop into them.
I wanted to write you a love letter, but you left before I remembered
your name, and my mother, when I was young
and she was scrubbing my face, told me never to forget
a lady’s name, but with your oversized flannel--
maybe you weren’t a lady, and maybe it wasn’t you I wanted to write.
The fireplace is full of ashes;
the flue is fastened shut.
You decided, when I asked, that you loved leaves in autumn best,
and I said they were my favorite too, but you were thinking of them
floating so gently down after you threw them high in the air
while I was thinking of the way they crumbled at the slightest touch.
It snowed last night. All of the streets
woke under a frozen blanket.
When I said I wanted to write you a love letter, I didn't really.
But you were here and now you’re gone,
and if I wrote to you and told you that I missed
the way you never shut the kitchen cupboards, or
the way you never made the bed or
the way you always remembered to kiss my cheek when you left
until you left for good;
if I were to write to you and tell you that--
it would feel like a love letter.