To Hilda (during lunch)

Lunch.
 
I take a stick
of cigarette,
light it
as I dream of
your face
 
and the sun
that crashes through
the leaves, the trees
leaving traces of smoke
that burns my throat,
my lips. You stand
 
above me,
I sit below you;
oblivious. Seemingly,
of course.
 
Who’d have thought
mere minutes
are now a month?
 
Well, almost.
 
I remember you
dreaming of me,
vividly, cautiously.
 
Funny how I can
only see you now
through cheap memories
I have kept.
 
Another stick,
as I glance at your feet.
Your voice is as loud as day.
 
Lunch.
 
Empty stomachs are nothing
compared to empty hearts.


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