The rain is still falling
the wind is still blowing
rattling the windows.

Somewhere, on a bridge
that arches over
my flooded streets
and clogged sewers,
he is in a safe place,
loving her.
Somewhere far from here
somewhere more real
than reheated leftover dinners
and commuter buses
crowded with strangers,
he is sharing his world with her,
the table spread
with a feast for two,
there is fire on the hearth,
and love,
such as I am too old to remember,
graces the air.

Somewhere, on the other side
of this page,
in a story untouched
by the jadedness
that has been haunting
my bed,
his lips are locked onto hers,
partaking of a warmth
my solitude can only dream of,
her skin is touching his
in private celebration
of a passion and an ease
I am too complicated
to know anything about.

Somewhere, beyond the reach
of my incompleteness,
he sings to her
in a language foreign to me
and she answers his call
like a falcon
to the falconer
soothing his pains
with the miracle of her essence,
leaving me nothing
for him to need.

Somewhere far away
and unknown to me,
their souls have found a home
with each other.
She sits on the throne of his heart,
reginal and beyond refute,
and he safeguards her peace
like the prize
to his every sacrifice,
like keys to a greenhouse
in a world
that would kill
for a single rose,
like a masterpiece he won
at auction,
paid for with the last
of his possessions,
like an endangered sun
the day before
the end of the world

while here, where I am,
it is night.
The sky is still,
and the air has not stirred
for a million years.