Tala

Dan Murroni

Tala, I still see your spirit

sometimes. You’re sitting in the

sun on the sofa, whispering words:

“I want you.” You’re standing in

the shower, forming faces behind

mushy make-up. You’re cuddled at

the kitchen counter, motioning for

food—more mango.

After all, you hinted you’d haunt

me, a ludicrous line eliciting a

laugh,

as I fatefully forget the details

of a past persona—someone to

fear— something you were shy to

say, afraid to accept, clutching

your cross.

Tala, I still muse on moments

memorized. You’re kissing me kindly

but morosely, delivering, doe eyed-ly:

“don’t worry.” You’re quite close to

just crying,

waning under the weight of the

world. You’re hugging me with

hesitation, looking to leave—one

last time.

After all, you hinted you’d haunt me,

not knowing the nature or just quite

how, as I cautiously cling to the

recollection

of a fateful farewell—drenched in

tears— something you were

struggling to say, afraid to admit,

clutching your cross.