chekhov

i miss the space where you paced
and then sat and guarded me in white.
with sad brown eyes you talked to me,
uttered words i could never understand.
i still spoke back.
but i don't think you knew i said goodbye.
or rather, i don't think you knew i meant goodbye.
so i returned one dumb, drunk night
expecting you
expecting me
and there you weren't,
save static traces clinging to the rug
like tiny ghosts stretched thin around the world.
i couldn't even call to leave a message.
so now i type your name in code each day,
but seven years for each of mine
takes far too long to fade away.

decaded

midnight park, deserted.
ghostly swings’ hinges sing
and in-between is filled
with echoes of the afternoon.

the grass, freshly cut, has left its mark
on young lovers’ clothes,
has brought life to
old men’s flared nostrils.

graffiti is coarsely etched into
a weathered picnic table.
its words, light brown on grey wood,
read easily: “never again”,
dated september 11, 2001.