I am running out of energy to wait.
My stubborn patience wears dangerously thin.
It is on the edge of panic.

It is easy to remember details
that are etched into my tender memory—
secrets too precious to forget,
too dangerous to carry.
I return to afternoon after lonely afternoon,
reciting your name, height, reason for leaving,
how you exited my doorway in red flannel.

The search party never returns with good news.
It never returns with you.



In a city of half-kept promises
and false motives,
you never found a pace that fit.

It is no surprise that you remain
a wandering migrant,
a wondering traveler
with no place to rest
your tattered suitcase.