JANUARY
This longing for him the choke in my throat again —
enough, enough.
So I throw a coat over my shoulders
close the door behind me, quietly,
as if afraid to wake another ache.
Almost dawn. It’ll seep
into the sky behind the palms. So I head east
into this street of bungalows
as if I belonged here, among the somber windows
lit one by one, among the first
joggers & their dogs, past garages yawning
out cars into the noisy businesses
of the day. This longing, again for him — who,
last June, did not wait for light,
turned his face away from the window, &, quietly,
entered silence.
