We’d said we would meet at the bench
coated with green paint in the park,
count new lines on the other’s face
with our masks on, six feet apart.

I waited in my old red keds,
torn blue jeans and a plain white tee.
As dusk grew red and sunlight ebbed,
you’d probably forgotten me.

Stillness sat like a quiet cat,
licking its pink paws, near my feet.
Starlings chirped on high branches as
the lights flickered on down the street.

You crossed out days and crossed out years
since the day when we should have met,
when you’d waited until your tears
dried up behind burnt cigarettes.

Flushed winds rushed like the years gone by.
As blue shadows did turn and twist,
a cracked apology, and I

faded into the moonlit mist.