The Scene

A poem

Imagine the French Riviera. A cobblestone patio. A round, wrought-iron table beneath an open window. Two folding chairs — now empty.

The scene, so serene, so simple in its quietude, when only moments before, we sat in those chairs, you and I, our feet inside dusty hiking boots, our hands around mismatched mugs of mulled wine we bought at Café de la Place down the lane.

You have been subdued all day and I catch you staring at odd things: a forgotten sand pail, a tipped over flower pot, the old couple holding hands, on the far-off bench.

We’ve planned this trip for months, a whirlwind through Spain, England and finally, France and I see now, you planned to leave, leave, leave me all along while I hungered for the stars ablaze upon your spine.

The brochures, the travel logs, the transatlantic flight could not erase your distant whisper, your averted gaze, your lips that said despite the years we’ve been together, you couldn’t love me in the long run.

I spill over with ink. I dine upon your breath. I pray for answers to infect my heart. I dream away the story while my lungs deflate from the loss of your compassion.

I fall into the mouth of God and find despite your hunchback of rejection I drink the love inside.

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