The ashtray is empty now.
A hollow shell cold porcelain
from where warmth  has touched.
Sitting on the porch ledge
where you leaned against on Sunday
afternoons, touching the dimples of my
face, promising a future you knew not to
be true. Words empty as the tray now filling
with gray rain water falling from gray skies
on my now gray Sunday afternoons.
Night falls and the cold creeps
accompanying me on our porch.
Asking why I am still out here
when there is no light.
But I have to wait for morning
in case you come by. And there
will be coffee in the ***, warm
for your arrival. And the ashtray
will be there. And so will I.
We have been waiting for some time.