VIII

When I return home
and opening the door from the street,
I catch a glimpse of myself in their glass
and look over my shoulder.
For a moment I believe,
that you are standing there.
That you set out to find me
and kept silent the whole way,
so that you could surprise me.
Then I walk down the stairs
to my apartment
and with every step I tell myself:
What if you arrived before me?
What if you are waiting inside,
you sit in an armchair,
you lie in bed,
as if you had never left?
Somewhere very far away
perhaps right now is striking
the light of Earth
from a time that no longer exists.
Someone might be looking at us
and still see the houses
we tore down.
People who died.
Doors
that no one enters anymore.
And perhaps I am looking
at my own apartment too.
I receive its old light
from the time
when you were still in it.
That's why I look back
in the glass of the door.
I am looking for you.
That's why I slow down in front of the lock
and for a moment
I can't turn the key.
How long can a person keep arriving,
when they have already left once and for all?
How many times do I have to look back,
before I understand,
that only the past stands behind me?
And how many times must I return home,
before your final light
reaches me?
I'll unlock the door.
There is no one inside.
Only the room slowly yields
what it had held within.
Your laughter.
Your touches.
The place where you used to sit.
The bed where we used to lie.
The bathtub where I used to dry you.
I leave the door open for a moment,
in case you were still coming to me
from some very distant past.
Then I snap the latch.
And I know,
you won't come.