The table still brings up your name
when I visit quietly sitting.
The curl of ink, which stained the wooden
porch of thick smog.
Today I walked by,
eyes grazed between metal shackles that close
the place where
a thousand notes were exchanged.
It was crossed out between pages and lines
the words are still attached to the ruins we left
behind that day.
Gathering the dust, inside my pocket,
I walked on, only to look back at the bargain sign hanging
in the window across the hallway.
Couldn't today of been, then.