So now it’s over.

We sit with our wine,

staring at the soaked street

sipping from the glass.

Something different

to think about.

 

Once his eyes could

pierce my heart,

now his drumming fingers

hack my head.

I leave,

 

the wine unfinished,

words uncompleted,

anger undispelled.

I walk through the rain

without motive.

 

Those months, those

times together, such fun,

now seem illusory.

Were we part of that,

actors in a street comedy?

 

I turn and retrace.

I see the table

at the window,

the wine now alone,

undrunk.

 

If those times were real,

If we were real, then

this is the illusion.

We have to talk more

to find the truth.