Juliet

Are you on your way
To the cafe by the bridge?

There, you sit with your nonexistent shadow
And write about the misty mornings,
The dead birds by your doorstep,
The faceless mailman,
And the milk box that,
upon closer look,
Harbored a decomposing rodent.

Are you musing about your despair?
"Every page is a tomb,"
You said to me one day,
"And the words, fragments of a life
Mutilated and left to rot,"

With a journal in your left hand,
As you stood on the ledge of a building,
Sixty stories above the ground.