Norwesters

Here I stand,
At the graveyard of saudadé.
Violins weep as the first rain heralds
The beginning of an end.

Moonlight spreads itself against the fences
Like cling wrap on stale bread:
Your letters arrive. I tear open
the envelopes to find the last song.

Dusty apologies lie untouched on my coffee table. Your smell
Tarnishing my couplets
Until they cease to make sense.

Believe me, I thought of doing the weekend cleaning
But the dust storms began,
Stacking more apologies, meaningless apologies,
Obituaries, eulogies, consolations
upon the loss of the face I used to see everyday
In my bedroom mirror.
The dust now shrouds everything I once called mine.

Sometimes I wish I'd saved enough
For a vacuum cleaner.