Gone, girl

Photo by the author

It takes you a few days to realize I’m gone;
five days, at half past four in the afternoon, to be exact,
when you notice my car hasn’t been there
and you don’t feel me watching you.

You puzzle the clues —
I shed those signs, those songs I still could play into your head —
and you admire their precision and abscission,
then discover yourself standing in the emptying parking lot
looking at what was my spot
rain dripping from your face on a day that’s windy and cloud-free.

I’ve run from you before,
just never far enough or maybe not fast enough
to keep you from following at a distance,
so near I know I prefer your old perfume,
so far we fail to meet or to mix,
but never before so far that
it takes you a few days to realize I’m gone.