the one who never left

i still pick up calls from every unknown number that rings and

i still take the long route home to pass by your place and

i still take my coffee black, and my bread untoasted.

will it taste like you?

i work nights - slaving like a mule,

beaten and bruised and bereaved.

i drive till nowhere and make a point

of turning on the radio till it punctures my eardrums.

will it sound like you?

i cover every mirror in my flat

and make an effort not to look into someone’s eyes

because i’m this empty abyss of

your reflection;

this looking glass of absence and despair.

through it all, i’m wholly selfish because

who else but me can look upon your face?

to see me, they’ll have to sail through you,

so i always let the waves wash you ashore.

it is awful to be the one who waits;

this trepid lump of jitters and jolts.

so i dress down for work,

i spill food on my blouse,

i keep my door unlocked,

i leave my bed unmade

begging you to appear

to scold, shriek, shout, smack…

any semblance of intimacy will suffice.

i don’t know when to stop waiting.

when will the coffee taste less bitter?

when will i take a different path home?

when will you call if even to say goodbye again?