Eleven lakes, you played piano, badly, barefoot, waiting for me, for ice crashing down
cliffs, postal trucks, wine and metallic marker on a map. Roasting tomatoes, you laughed
at having told the bar owner we’d known each other eleven years. At the train stop
you took my hand and I looked past you, because of the cold, my headache, your halo,
because Michael cried because of his heart, because I started thinking about the things
I was going to have to take away, which is a useless exercise for someone who has never
felt like a stranger.