Speaking Like Am Immigrant

Daylight changed without you.

The weather got colder; it rained, the sun came out, wet newspaper dried on the street corner, pigeons fluttered about the park, children squealed on the sidewalk wearing witch faces and pumpkin heads, half-eaten candy apples melted on their sleeves… Another day went by.

Your side of the bed got rumpled, too, I borrowed your pillow, whispered your name, opened the window and blew out the dust, tilted the lamp shade, breathed in the twilight…

I noticed the sounds of leaves rustling of trains approaching underground, of [men] laughing a little like you. I conjured up your face and traced your lips in the air, thinking, your absence is different now. There’s no anxiety only discomfort, a stillness about every-thing-time doesn’t move the same way. My thoughts are quieter…

What frightens me is knowing this is how it [is now that you're] really gone, leaving my skin slowly, carving out the time, until I finally feel your absence surrounding me like mist, taking shape, like the depth of your eyes and the scent of your body 

-- Romo-Carmona