Tonight, I have nothing else.

Today you did not come back.

I know.

The day knows too.

It went on without asking me,
putting light on buildings,
opening shops,
making people late for places
they still wanted to go.

I stayed where you left me.

Not exactly there.
A little to the left, where hope becomes
difficult to see
but impossible to remove.

I thought perhaps
you had looked toward the window.
Just for a second.

Perhaps the afternoon
had touched your face

Perhaps somewhere between
one thought and the next,
my name crossed your mind

I don't need much anymore.
A glance. A hesitation.
A hand resting on a windowsill
for no particular reason.

Something small enough
to deny afterward.
Because if you have thought of me,
even once,
then I can make a home
out of that one thought.

I am become good at this.

I have made entire countries
out of smaller things.
You should have seen them.
I'm sure you would have found
something to love
in each one.
You are very talented at finding
something to love
even in the pavement stones
of the smallest countries.

Tonight the window is dark.
Still, I keep looking at it
as though the glass
might eventually become a message.

As though you might suddenly know
that I have been here.

As though somewhere,
at this exact moment,
you have looked toward your window,
and thought of me.

And perhaps that is enough.
It has to be.
Tonight,
I have nothing else.