Jeanette

All I can think of are words

but you don’t belong in sentences,

these words can’t bring you back.

I wish I wrote to you more- but the post was so slow!

I wish I called you, but there was always tomorrow-

and now that there isn’t,

those words still hang on my lips.

All that’s left now is the tea cup and saucer, still stacked in the cupboard.

Its early morning, and the birds are singing on the stoop, calling for their crumbs.

Five o' clock strikes and the city is waking up, but your flat is still asleep.

There are no slippers slapping down the hall. The kettle isn’t on the boil.

The pap is still maize in a bag. Six o' clock strikes and the city growls louder.

The empty windows watch the students make their way to lectures, the taxis roaring past.

By 4pm there is just the memory of you,

quietly reading the newspaper in the living room.

A breeze rustles paper; for a moment you’re still with us.

There is a quiet sigh in the house like a long breath out.

Eight thousand miles away, my photo cannot see you anymore.

Somewhere in your flat, a light bulb has burnt out.