You left behind on the screen
stains of water that won’t wash off,
like snowflakes in the depths of winter.
I returned to the familiar tavern,
cradling the warm, steaming air,
the light before me spreading and dimming.
Look, the No. 12 train
I used to ride all the time
is unusually crowded today.
You disappeared outside the window,
melting into the pedestrians and the night,
the newspaper crumpled in a ball.