A Requiem, Christin

Christin
Cubes float in cold water of a perspiring glass,
And he wipes his clammy palms with a napkin
Leaving wet white bits of tissue on his fingers.

A third bead of sweat forms on his forehead,
And he cranes his neck for relief,
But he can’t breath.

A ceiling fan above sends warm gusts on his bare crown,
And the sleeve of his jacket touches the dirty floor.

Through the heat he thinks of that thousand year ago night when
she bounced into his life
With a dimpled smile and a handshake.
Then, there were the following months
when the shakes became hugs incomplete unless her feet were off the ground.

…the heat though, as he fingers the edge of his sweating glass,
Scratching condensation for a brief cool fingertip…

She lays cold now.

And now he sits in a low lit hazy café,
Brooding over melting ice under gusts of warm wind
pushing on him from a ceiling fan,
And her dimpled smile memory mocks his pain,
As life mocks those left in pools of painful sadness,
Which we try to leave,
But are unable to.

So the pain follows us through the years
Until it grafts itself onto our character,
Keeping us strong and comforting us.

She lays cold now because she threw herself out a window.