this is that isolated pinprick in time when you are supposed to tell me
not to fade into purple, not to become a royal blue mist,
not to leave my flat behind, board the plane,
go home, or watch your cities grow distant
from the window seat.

I wait for your reply, expecting a shockwave
of silence to fray my heart’s wiring, but you
gift me a soft goodbye of
tissue paper and sea glass, a handful of tears
amongst infinite smiles.

you send a companionless echo across the North Sea,
a gentle, celestial rush through sleek city streets,
and a cry for artistry gliding along the tracks;
it all culminates into a second of noise,
into a sweet, ephemeral song, that will
sing within me until eternities grow tired

a subtle breeze brushes the wine in my half-full glass,
and yes, you’ll clasp the missing remainder,

but I am grateful it isn’t half-empty.