The future came. We didn’t greet our guest.
It waited by the door and turned around.
We sat down by the window. You undressed
And lit a cigarette. I read to you about
Two star-crossed lovers kissing by the gate
(You always loved my melancholy writing).
It must have been a Friday. It was late.
It poured outside. The sudden streaks of lightning
Lit up the room and all the space inside,
Between the kitchen table and the window
And if it wasn’t for the candle light,
Our furniture would surely vanish into
The pitch-black night. I took the final drag
And read the final stanza, dragging out
Each syllable as if to hold time back,
To stretch each silent second with a sound.