Twelve

The day breaks with the weight of all the years.
The hours remember the calendar,
the calendar remembers you.

Twelve days since the first,
twelve hugs, twelve kisses,
twelve seasons passing in the same instant,
twelve manifestations of the twelfth day.

Twelve celebrations,
one special in the twelfth month
minus two. Twelve days later
minus one, it is your birthday.

But today, silence
is the only guest.
It sits across from me,
drinks from my coffee,
mocks my plans to make you happy,
laughs at the times I tried to love you,
and cackles, cruel,
at the sorrow of having lost you.

I keep, in the twelfths,
the scraps of conversations,
the smiles cut short,
the touches that still reach me,
even if ghostlike.

And I think: if there were
twelve drops of poison,
perhaps the twelfth day would evaporate
and fall, like me,
into nothing.

– Taken March 13, 2025.