In Vienna you were there and then gone so fast.
Stuck between marble columns I called your name and heard
a question echoing down the streets and across the river.
Every postcard I sent came back to the same corner shop.
For every step away I found myself closer to the theater.
Those years I didn’t realize that everything is holy when you are
not. Those years passed in skeletons and cross sections.
I watched everyone run away and couldn’t bring myself
home. I stopped looking for you when weeks became months
and the blood in my mouth tasted like moondust
and the moon never changed. When people danced
near the river and cast shadows polar and linear, it darkened
from half to crescent until the current washed over it again.
Some days I tore blossoms from the trees just for some kind
of sadness. I was fifty feet from the train station
when the church bells rang again. Memory was a religion
even when I didn’t want to find you. I could pack my bags
and try to leave but I’d be sitting at the same café.
I prayed for distance and there I was again. How long
can you die for before you’re forced back into life?
Now the blood tastes like metal and the moon goes through
each phase. I’ve been running through this night trying to find
a footprint that isn’t mine, but the city still looks the same.