The day after you left, I walked by the white door that led to your place.
Two neighbors were joking around on the sidewalk, talking about you,
complaining about the empty water bottles that you had thrown out there.
I stood on the other side of the street, feeling a little pale and out of place,
looking up at the windows that were shut, the wood shutters pulled down.
You always went to the window to watch me walk back to my apartment.
You would wave to me, hurrying back in an evening dress and high heels.
We used to dance behind the rows of those tall windows in late afternoons,
your steps right behind mine, our bare feet sticking to the linoleum floor.
We sat in the kitchen early in the morning and you made expressos for us.
I watched you struggle with the cranky machine, fidgeting with the cups,
placing the tiny spoons by the delicate plates and bring out the creme.
We used to fight in silence, staring at each other in absolute rage,
swallowing food with difficulty, trying to keep the real world at the door.
On the other side of the street, I remembered how we used to dance,
the music of Al Green blaring in the living room, intoxicating and free,
the neighbors wondering what the strange actor from abroad was up to.
An ordinary entrance stands across the street from me, windows are shut,
the kitchen is empty, the terrace is empty, the expresso machine is silent,
but behind the white door, something dances on like a wild stubborn flame.
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