Someone posted the first line of this as their Facebook status after an awkward goodbye with me. I would like to think it was dedicated to me. Either way, it's a beautiful poem by a poet I probably need to know more about, Julio Cortazar.
The keepsake you've bequeathed me, a face among mirrors and dirty saucers,
contributes to my suspicion that the universe isn't perfect.
The awkwardness of our last hour together
argues the certainty that the sun is poisoned,
that inside every grain of wheat a deadly weapon trembles -
when all should have come clear, in a silence
where nothing would have been left unsaid.
But that's not how it was, and we parted
the way we deserved to, really, in a filthy cafe,
surrounded by ghosts and cigarette butts,
mixing our pitiful kisses with night's undertow.