Eveira

It is dark when I arrive, my breath making clouds in the air, the cars passing by on the bridge with their headlights like stars in the black of night. That's okay; I have come to know darkness, and to love it. The river laps on the shore like a dog drinking water from his bowl, eating the earth that I stand on.    The cars above me, on the cement bridge, ignore me. Their rushing noise envelops me; and I'm encompassed by the friendly lack of silence. The midnight air is cool and sweet. Far away, I hear life; people shout and babies cry; but I am not a part of their world and they are not a part of mine.    For

I took care of your things long after you'd left.   You only left the plants, so I cared for them like I'd cared for you. Every day, after I'd woken and spent the customary few minutes assessing that, yes, you were really not sleeping beside me, I rose in the quiet blue light of dawn and filled a cup with water. After looking outside to make sure you weren't out there either, I carefully washed their leaves, starting with the ones on the left side of the window sill and slowly making my way to the right. They grew and grew and grew, and I had my pieces of you left.   The rain came. I knew how much you hated the rain; the cold and the wet