At the time, it was no small matter,
the manner of your departure.
A key was sitting on the kitchen table.

Looking out the window above the kitchen sink,
I stared at the slowly descending red sun:
an oil portrait in the West, with colours running
down the faded canvas of our
summers-turned-to-winters lives.

In the closet, your clothes hung, lifeless.
Your favourite power business suit,
standing at attention, ready to perform.

You’d always liked to say, ‘life’s a beach!’
Smiling, in your dazzling way, captivating:
Sunshine in your wide smile, but
there was rain in those dark eyes.

Your skin always tanned,
olive-coloured, glowing.
But when you smiled,
the creases showed below the surface
with a seersucker appearance: shīr o shakkar. *

It is now abundantly clear to me, our days together were pointless.

The sands of time ran out
in the clouded hourglass.
The grains were small.
I was careful to catch them.
But it was already too late.

*Persian – “milk and sugar.”