Not your anonymity
Nor the slowness of your walk
Will fill the gap she is leaving behind
And along and within and without
Like my knife slicing through butter
Like the weight under my eyes in the morning
Like the heaviness in my whisky
Like the fleck of skin peeling off my fingernail
Like the taste of the day's first cigarette
The thought that this is how life is going to be for the foreseeable
future is not one that inspires much solace. Inertia wins me over, I finish my
drink, tip the bartender, walk out onto the streets of the imaginary city. His
glasses are Italian made, with whorls of glass around the bottom so that your drink does inadvertently slip out of your hand.
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