it will be nothing romantic,
as bloated with gray
as a streetlamp in london,
god pissing on all the stray cats
and rooftops
i will have forgotten you
by then, cleansing
in the livers of angels,
and me, loving every wind
as potently as a glass of water -
two ice cubes, a mouth,
nothing fewer.
maybe it will end the next time
i cross a busy southern
intersection, pass a colder face
on the way and recall something
almost you,
a red balloon,
a smile who has stopped writing
to tell me exactly
when you died.