“one day,

 he won’t come back.”

the violence of lives ending.

the blandness of autumn

once yellow leaves

 turned brown, red

like blood dripping

from skinny fingers

 dipped into too many lives

and dragged across pages

 burning orange

like our last sunset.

before his car disappeared

over the horizon and

 we were alone.

the pause and push,

her pulling back

 and spilling their drinks

all over the floor.

but then forgetting.

he killed himself

on the nineteenth of may,

once the schoolyards

 had been cleared,

the classrooms emptied

 and buses pulled out

of deserted lots.

when i went to fetch water

in the morning, i found

 the well plugged up

with her tears

 and her baby.

we’re not that different.

the bullet that split the sky

 pushed apart his brain

and left marks on the wall

 that she scrubbed and scrubbed,

then pulled back the curtains

 to find us shivering

next to his body and his books.

he had found

what was left to discover

didn’t matter,

 and neither did we.

we all saw it coming.