He stands against the counter in my kitchen
His hair is long and tosseled and his face is a mystery
I am barefoot and dancing as the sun sets to amber outside of the window panes
It is late summer and the birds are leaving for the Southland
This man who watches me as I drop vegetables into hot oil, this man is leaving too.
I try to ignore the heat of his eyes, I try to ignore the cry of my heart.
In the morning I will watch him pack his things into a small suitcase with heavy hands and a heavy heart.
In the morning, when the light is creeping through the slit in the curtains and shades of steel blue alight his pale face and I am following the contours of his cheek bones and I am watching his chest rise and fall, I will place my head there and cry silently.
And we are at a ferry terminal watching the fishermen down on the wharf, listening to the homeless man rummaging through the garbage.
And we are at a bus station, everything is moving too fast now.
I am watching his bus leaving, winding its way down a curving black road.