Yesterday was the last day of summer.
And it makes sense 
you weren’t with me

then. Or even 
on this rainy afternoon- 

you’re teaching me to live
apart from you, which has reduced to

breakfast dishes crowding the nightstand, 
the TV droning with some Julie Christie drama, 
my black hair unwashed for a fifth day.

After all what’s grief to someone
who never tires of longing 
except a manner of existing
in the present, where nothing is derivative.

Strange. It’s much easier now
to reconcile 
the scene of when I first saw you –

crossing a city street on a busy September afternoon. 
The one perfect moment,  before language. 

by: David Semanki

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