My lover remembers to leave me a note,
talking about the time we used to talk
when we were lovers,
when our bedsheets aligned,
and the politics overhead too, made love every day,
and found the time to write spare notes - on cheap paper, and my borrowed pen,
to an amour she would not see anymore,
talking about the blue nights she spent with me,
my lover recalls with vividness
the words I had said to her,
before I could learn to speak again,
in this really long note she has left me, and
I can suddenly see time as I have never before, and
my lover looks at me as if she has never before,
and she doesn’t know when to stop, and her heart doesn’t stop so easy,
and I could stop reading,
knowing she might die soon.