Sunlight alive on the forest floor, birds chatter out of sight. I sit on an old tree stump adding to the stillness. This is where the day waits.

A freckled hand smoothing wrinkles from her dress. The steady tick of an old clock, the hum of an electric fan.

She is waiting, but will not say it.

The soft sigh of expectation, chipped nails tracing lines across painted skin. Her ink laden eyelashes smile in the dark.

There is something here, and we both see it.

I pedal furiously through late night streets, fractals of florescent light flash across my eyes. I hope you are waiting when I get there, but I see an image of your body on the bathroom floor, white skin pressed against the porcelain tiles. It hangs on the end of your tongue, dripping slowly down the slope of your neck. You told me how much you like that part, and tonight it’s all I see. I am the drip falling into your void.

She looked uncomfortable smoking from a pipe, but I was out of papers. She held it delicately to her lips, the lighter barely licking at the glass before she’d drop it and slowly let the smoke wisp from her parted mouth. I watched intently, it turned me on.

Families passed by on parallel trails that weaved through the park, stepping a little quicker when they caught sight of us. I knew it bothered her. I didn’t mind so much. 

She coughed softly a few times, and smiled. I raised the lighter, and cleaned out the rest. It was mostly ash. I tapped the pipe against the flat of my shoe and stuffed it in a pocket. Without a word passing between us, I took her hand, and we headed back towards the car. Life was easy.

I know the quiet of this apartment intimately, I prefer it over the whimper in our bed sheets. While you work laboriously I think instead of that quiet, and begin to look at your shoes. 

They keep telling me I look tired today. I hadn’t noticed until someone mentioned it. I guess I’m not really sleeping these days, my mind spinning like a wheel in mud. I lay in bed for hours, kicking my feet out from underneath the blanket only to tuck them back in a few minutes later. I turn a pillow sideways, then back the other way. I flip it over, jam my head between them. It doesn’t work. I can hear the drip of a faucet left on upstairs. Its thud against the ceramic grows louder and louder, until the echo circles my room endlessly. I am waiting for it, counting the seconds between each drop. I grow mad in its silence.

She is alone at the kitchen table. Dinner cooks in the oven. She looks down into a glass of red wine, turning it slowly in her hand, a single finger tugging at the rim. It is empty again, and I have not called. 

We sat on a bench my dad pulled from an old minivan. The night was damp, stars hidden beneath a plastic awning. Thunder crashed internally. The lantern grew dark. You looked on in pity, blinked away the dripping chandelier. I leaned in for our first kiss. 

It is not easy today. The wind is cold, and I think of you. I can’t see your house from here, but I know it’s out there crowded among the rest. I imagine a single light is on, a small lamp beside your bed. I wonder if anyone else is there. 

I was in the window, eight floors up, watching snow collect on the street corner. She was in bed, playing with the cat. A dead man sang quietly from her speakers. The people down below were moving slower, their hands stuffed in pockets, hoods drawn up over their faces. I looked back at her, and she smiled warmly.

She was happy here. I belonged in the street. 

We are parked outside a corner store. The rain is drumming against the car roof as we watch drops run slowly down the windshield. I hold her hand in my lap, it was always cold.

This is how we said goodbye, it was always quiet. 

I am waiting in this dirty apartment,
Painting muted colours over sunshine, 
Draping summer in heavy eyelids.

There is no one here, the scratch
Of my pen travels in place of footsteps. 

It’s only myself, and the familiar names
I whisper in my sleep. 

My finger skips across her palm
Like the arm of a record player.

Her body is still, quiet.

This is a moment missed and nothing mended,
A season wasted beneath opaque sheets.