The clouds keep dying -
I eye them from this rooftop,
sitting in blue wicker,
living exactly one year
in the past, back before
you took that selfie
in the plane's oculus,
the one I printed out
& put up on the fridge,
on your way to Istanbul.
Covid spit out 9 months
of long distance and maybe
something died between us,
like these clouds die -
softly, slowly, failing
in the early evening.
You entertained someone else.
When I visited Dublin,
you could barely kiss me.
It took ten days
until that toll was paid.
Now you're still in Dublin,
the green city I love so much,
visiting those parks you lent me,
running to the sea
where I bought you a high tide.
I still live in Washington,
so ******* alone,
sitting on this red rooftop
watching clouds pass away,
not knowing when
I'll see you again.
I've given absolutely
everything to you,
so please grant me this favor:
turn your handsome hazel
to this blue chair
where I down scotch
after scotch, and find a way
to save me, because the night
is coming so quickly,
so quickly.