through obsidian window panes,
the amber-tinged oak-furnished cafe
suffers a slow and sweet dull ache
as the turntable
sighs with a warped 60’s slow jam
that solemnly meets
the silence between tired eyes.
outside dangles the faded
jacaranda, petals
grayscale under the eyeing moon—
that shallow
meniscus of glittering silver
sewn into the night
in a shy, stemless wine glass,
the vibrant open sign
hangs by the front door
in a luminescent, neon violet
beside it, a poster
promising better times—
but from the outside reads as plain,
dry Letraset.
the heater rumbles
just enough to keep
their fragile fingertips
from freezing over,
knowing they are the last of their kind:
the artists with neural, tender minds.
but is careful to not warm too much:
mindful of the drooping English ivy
on the wall, roots tucked
into thin glass vials
with curious leaves afraid to brown.
a sincere score of
cautious conversation burns dimly,
a voice reminiscing about
how there once was an Illinois,
a glistening seascape, and warmth
that you didn’t have to pay
for with the pain of
having known it at all.
but the empty evening bus has made its
final rounds, and only tattered
newspapers wearing
yesterday’s headlines
line the metro platform,
while the day hosts a sickly Sun,
and the night a scattered bunch of
sickle-cell stars.
those artisans, lamenting
the death of still life.
a choked gaze in return for
heavy heartfelt remarks,
inkless pens between
cornflower bruised knuckles
from having written it all:
The Story of the World, which began:
“Once blushed the crimson
spot rockrose, a deep, deep red.”
the gaslamp flickers, and for a moment
it is dark, the black sky torn apart
with great scars of ripping cirrus.
I cannot help but look away, knowing the
fleeting memory of such pigments
will one day become proof of life.
but the needle stays pressed into
the Motown tune, as I am watching
The End of the World:
a beautiful bough, an ephemeral bouquet
the earnest vows, bound for decay
all heres and nows, weathered and frayed,
and now, without any further delay—
as the actress bows at the end of the play
and turns her back to the edge of the stage
if living is losing, then I cannot say
that I have not lived,
when you are away.