Starving. A piece of bread. Glass of water. Faucet drips. Dirty floors, walls with black markings on them, a light bulb hangs from the ceiling. 

Bread is stale. He chews on it slowly. Watches two mice fornicating in the corner. He misses her.

She wasn’t anything. She was everything. They walked beside the East River. Would hold hands. Old weathered hands. They read each other’s palms. Lines cut short. Fingernails bitten. Spit out. Pigeons followed. 

The mouth he kissed was small. Thin lips. Accented by red lipstick. A mustache was powdered over. He didn’t care. Love goes beyond that.

They sat on a bench and watched boats go by. Lights blinking on them at night. Looked like moving houses in the suburbs at Christmas time. He held her hand tighter.

It’s amazing what time does. We wait for it to pass. And soon, it’s gone.