Don't pay any attention to the words her mouth is making

To document this moment,
to describe in complete and utter clarity,
freeze-frame this one crystal collection of seconds,
I would need to much more talent than I posses.

It's April again, already, and it's just dusky at 8 o'clock.
The light is a soft blue-gray and
the trees are black velvet silhouettes
against the light blue and evening star in the west.
The sidewalk is still warm beneath my callused poet's feet
and my father's old coat lends some antique warmth
to this particular spring thaw.
The birds around here have become nocturnal,
clamoring like they never do at dawn.
The faint scent of smoke, wet earth, and river water
Infuses the surprisingly arid evening air.
When I inhale, I taste pine, rain, and humus.
I exhale and it's baked potato.
Maybe I'll inhale forever.

There are no lines left on my paper
and the point upon which paper, pen, and ink commingle
is nothing more than the flashing, periodic twinkle
of a broken-down street light.
Navy blue, electric orange, and ash gray
are poured over the world
like chocolate over a summer strawberry.

Knowing that you can't see this makes it
just that much more poignant.
You've left, and I will be leaving soon as well.
There's always someone coming,
and someone leaving.
We walk in and out of each others' lives
like improvisational stage hands,
Putting on a surreptitious show at midnight.
You don't have to see to write.
Why should you see to act,
or, what's more, to love?

I will never forget you,
Not on chilly April nights such as this one,
Or on any night hereafter.
I will smell a trembling, seeking scent,
see a star flash in the dusk,
feel the melted blacktop under my toes,
hear a car horn shatter the silence,
taste a fleeting vapor of nostaliga,
and while its bitterness is one my tongue,
I will remember.