I do not weep on the banks of the Manzanares,
Nor desperately pray for a glimpse of your barge,
Unfurling it’s sails and billowing around the riverbend.
For August has come and gone,
After you left me the rainy season,
And I must reap another harvest alone.
I do wonder in sleepless nights, however,
After insomnia has claimed the space around the bed we shared,
If you met an olive-skinned girl who claimed your heart.
Does she have you lost at sea,
Your language-less love, your foreign mistress,
Your wandering soul.
As futile as it is, I hope for you,
I hope that you do not think of me, as I do you,
Even though I know that you always will.
And, I do not want you back,
Because you’re perfect as a missed opportunity,
An explosively lonely thought on a still morning.
You are the stitch I miss when patching up my jeans,
The droop of my eye-lid in an elsewise perfect photograph,
The misplaced semicolon, that should’ve been a dash anyhow.
You’re the talisman that I need to conjure the illusion that it’s okay,
Even though I am not happy,
And I know that you aren’t either.
But what fulfillment can contentedness bring,
When I can placate myself with unspilled tears,
Flowing along the riverbend?