It’s late, past midnight, and the birds are asleep. The lights are all out in our room, you’re not in bed and I’m sitting by the door. That’s where we are.
It’s summer and we’re supposed to be on holiday, we’re supposed to be drinking local wine, we’re supposed to be happy. But that’s not where we are.
I might forget how I got where I am every now and then but my memory does not fail when it comes to your whereabouts. You’re a few hundred kilometres away from me, you’re just not around.
I’m waiting with my bags packed, I’m waiting with the keys in the ignition, I’m waiting but you won’t answer your phone.
I’m upset, agitated, angry, alone and worried. You’re never late, always punctual, always pestering me about not keeping time, always laughing at my hurried goodbyes.
I’m waiting at the bridge, and it’s raining, but it’s summer, why is it raining? I’m waiting and we’re late for our flight but you’re not here with your suitcase.
I’m waiting in the car, and I’m calling you continuously, tired of listening to the radio and not your voice on the phone.
Its summer, why is it raining, we’re supposed to be on holiday, no, don’t you get it? We’re supposed to be on holiday, no, what do you mean I need to identify a body, what do you mean I need to calm down?
We loved playing hide and seek and you always found me within seconds, you traced my heartbeat, you said, and I laughed at how stupid that sounded.
It’s raining, and we’re still playing but I’ve been looking for you in the wrong places because I can’t hear your heart anymore and I found you, cold and red, I found you and you’re six feet underground, I found you and I’ve lost you and its raining and we’re never going to be on holiday and I’ve found you but no, I haven’t, I’ve not, not really.