I hear no more steps
in this dead monday
everybody's gone from home
and the door remains opened
the kitchen is empty and cold
seated, I see fruits in the sink
dismayed, out of tune
still not sure what I'm doing
make a coffee, rest the weariness
and in my arms
the memory of your hug
immersed in little crooked nights
empties
and me, lonely, completely exposed
guessing I'm not used
with all this rain in August.