When you left, I could hear you from across town.
Sure, she was a stinging drink that smacked you awake —
some girls are like that —
but slurring, stumbling is no good for steering.
When that door closed, it was you who closed it;
you, or God.
Not us.
Ten months later and I watch you at the coffee shop.
How are you, fine, I miss you, dear —
some words are like that —
but halting, hesitant is no good for hearing.
When that door opens, it’s you who’ll open it;
you, or God.
We’re waiting.
