I couldn’t find your grave
in the marble forest.
After the funeral I looked for signs
to get by when I
come for a chat,
but I remembered nothing.
Fifteen minutes from one grave to another
my shoes heavy with mud,
my head with names and faces,
unknown even when they were alive.
I was lost in the labyrinth where
we’ll all get lost one day
(or maybe find our place there).
When I came to visit you two years ago
in your new flat, you waited
on the balcony and threw me the key.
Now there’s nothing, dead silence
on the lifeless street.
I left feeling guilty
leaving the candles and the flowers
at an unknown grave.
I’ll come in the spring,
on a nice sunny day,
with a bottle of Jamison and two
packs of cigarettes,
and I’ll sit till they close.
Or maybe the graveyards
work around the clock,
24 hours per day?