Death, when it finally came, had a lover’s touch, stealing into the night 

by the glow of candles. I wander in and out the guest-room bleakly staring at me

waiting for its occupant to return. This is the everyday as we know it: Spring

is here and soon the summer heat will pour through windows. 

I check my phone as I wait in queue, this is what the living do, we wait. And want.

Waiting for the lights to change, to buy a loaf of bread, for someone to come home. 

That day while walking I tripped, that is life, I thought, you fall and get back up, 

trying to walk straight again; we want someone to talk to, doing something

that would give some joy to our lives. You called it schadenfreude, what

you finally gave up on. Like the cart of groceries we left at the checkout, 

not bothering to look back or worry about the bag breaking as we ran

to the car, giggling at our foolishness; I remember building bridges.

Between your house and mine, and I look back at ourselves, 

staring up at the stars, laughing as we dug into karela wheels,

sharing that last drink, who’s turn was it, to buy the Rum? I am still 

living, that is what the living do. They remember and they wait.