I look at the clock and the seconds are beating
in a stupid circular mania.
In the dirty eye of the mirror
an exhausted face comforts me with a familiar gesture.
Next to you photography the cigarette butts pile up in the residual ashtray.
The pillow that slept dreams of cotton and cellophane still smells of kisses.
I read the book of poems that we stole
in a fit of sentimental infection.
A fine rain is breaking on the windows
long tears that I begin to address.
The shoes that you left fit steps in the air
that silence me forces you to listen.
A car is coming down the street but it doesn't have luggage,
maybe it's the one coming behind.
I look at the clock and the seconds are beating
in a stupid circular mania.

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