three years passed and the window

is still stuck where I held your hand in

a ceremony called silence, a vender

participated, caught by eyes the first

embrace was wasted on a stranger-

we choose corners on the bus on the

roof, and even in the kitchen where

grime hosted our words exchanged

without commas, mere long lines

the draft messed up and needed

revisions but the author revolted

and lived a quiet life on a couch

no daffodils, no star, a black cat,

a photograph, tainted the pages.