56

There's my building on the corner
You can leave me across the street
Just before you drive away, say something to me
Say something I can keep and fall asleep to
and remember from everyplace I go
so that you've said it in my kitchen,
in the library, on the train to the places that you don't know;
so that I've heard it over thunderstorms,
dinner conversations, quiet songs.

And I don't even remember your voice anymore.

Or what you wore, what you were doing with your hands.
All that's left is the words
dangling over my head.