Requiem for Jean

I had an unfinished thought left in this morning's empty bottle. Something about
your name and a kiss.
I had chained myself to her bed for seven years. A temporary heaven.
A hat on the bed, her crane sculpture, a man runs down a now empty street in
black and white. I should have seen it coming. For at least a week death had followed me around town in a sleek car. Making me pay for everything.
She was always saying:
"Never give more than you are willing to lose."
She had given everything. That in me which demanded the dramatic wanted a wail of sorrow as I ripped open my shirt, exposing my chest.
I fumble through my pockets searching for a smoke. As I walk, I look through the grates into each store. My ghost follows me for the exact length of each window.
A woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth pushes a broom. Our last kiss now joins all the others. Left to hang, until dead. The sun is coming up. Soon the bakery will open.

Wayne Wolfson is a California-based author. More information on his works is available at his site, www.waynewolfson.com