your salty boot prints
dry on the tile floor
before me.

after you
you have gone and
i’m gone and our
shoes won’t touch
this place anymore,
you’ll still be walking
on my brain.

someone swept your tracks,
four and half years i guess,
finally to clear the mess.

i think you’re on a glacier now.
 

 

 

 

 

(i think you’re in my head
 in someone else’s body,
 just as impossible to reach.)