the emerald - hints&hiccups

I said I love you for the first time in a hotel room.

Things ended in a one-hour, sixteen-minute call.

I searched your ghost in corners and places in the city,

I long ago packed my things from.

I learned a language I can’t speak.

And I bristled every time I heard my phone ring.

But I wonder:

Did that coffee machine sour your mornings?

Did you dread opening the postbox,

not knowing what was worse—

to see a letter there, or nothing at all?

Did every little thing I gave you make you hate me?

Or did you have to bury it all—

plates, cups, feelings and my warmth?

Did the Queen of Danube decree this fall?

And are we really playing games now, after all?

I almost regret ever asking for a sign.

Now I’m afraid

there is only one emerald.