When I touched your face, you told me
I felt like Schönberg in Paris -
Mathematical and concise.
A quiet shiver, even
As I burn like travel irons
Left in a vacant hotel room,
The bed unmade; ice melting in the bucket.
I have walked on too many tiled floors
In too many chessboard hallways,
But when you said goodbye, I couldn't move.
My tongue lodged in my mouth as
Broken umbrella spires wrapped
Themselves around my face.
Someday I might come back -
When the restless buildings shift
And crack along their foundations,
Leaving things just the way they were:
The July runners wrapping
Themselves in scarves and gloves,
The revolving door whispering regrets.