mingling with the scent
of her perfume
from our last visit here,
the man with ink for blood,
not visible,
though the “for sale” sign on the door
said something sad,
how things come and go,
how what we hope will
serve as foundation of a future,
falls to pieces
even after only these few months,
this place one of a number
of such stops on a station of the cross
I have come back to reexamine,
to see what it was I missed
that led us both so far astray,
the diner, the walk, the peck of a kiss,
memory in a fog that defies
even the brightness of days,
for him, for us, the end of a road
we did not know we had taken
until it stopped.
I miss her, that moment,
even if she makes mockery of it,
of me laying blame on my shoulders
perhaps as it should be.
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