An year later.

Early morning, maybe four.
In that little window of time when it's only still dark for a short time,
or perhaps the faintest bit of light beginning.
The darkest hour, they say.

You're in the hall, by the table,
the ancient sun mica covered monstrosity that we hated,
the one with greasy smears that you couldn't get off
and brown coaster marks.
Ugly. 

You're by it and outside, 
it's sleeting and frigid 
and when there's enough light,
we'll know it's foggy.

It's cold, very cold.
Your pullover doesn't help.
Your hair is a mess,
the coffee isn't warm anymore.
You haven't really slept because you had to wake up in a few hours.
And so you're sleep deprived and feel sick and glum.
You shake your foot because that's what you do when you don't feel good.
Again and again, in weird jerking motions.
Your slipper comes loose.

You're at the same table as me, while I write this.
Because I wanted you exactly an year from me.
The light from your cigarette butt from today evening would've reached a star by now.
The smile, however, vanished as you turned.

We don't wait.
We don't expect this to have an ending, of any type.
Happy or otherwise.
We go on.

In the ugly overhead thing, all steel and glaring white light,
you're at your weakest, your sleepiest.
It is cold and lonely and unhappy.
But. It will get better.

And when morning comes, you will be through with me once again.
All over again.
Ragged, cold, tired, sad, crying perhaps.
And yet at the beginning of a new day.

Go back to bed.
And ache for me.
I only live in those moments you think of me.
And I don't want to die just yet.