A poem about you, leaving, and how we never have enough time.
|Author's note: Warning for vague mention of drug use, though it can be interpreted as both literal and metaphorical.
It's Thursday again
when I see you by the side of the street.
You have needles in your veins, like before
pushing against your skin.
You ask me for a ride home.
I look at you, swaying in the breeze
and I don't say no.
It's Friday, somewhere.
Not here, but you're standing at the top of the station steps
holding your red suitcase
like it never even left your hand.
You're sorry for not staying longer
and thankful for my hospitality.
There are other things, too
but you don't say them.
It's not Saturday.
It should be, but you are not here.
You are not anywhere anymore
but across the street in the churchyard
saying you love me and asking for a ride home
and I stand on the sidewalk waiting for you to come back.
I will never get used to watching you walk away.