Lost leaf.

Was it at six

this morning;

when velvet blinded windows

still hide night life

for unwanted glances?

It was this morning

- as a friend tends to tell me,

I should be precise -

at seven past six,

that the petiole detached from the stalk,

cautiously accurate,

as if Someone's hand executed

with surgical precision.

It felt as a relief,

for a sigh at least,

and not even a second

later I landed safely

on the greasy soil

surrounding the tree.

Laying on my moldy bed,

looking up with my humic eyes

I saw the man staring

at me trough his

fogged windows

from behind

his scarcely opened curtains.

I had no problem to imagine

his next move.

Wasn't I sharing his life since almost

half a year or,

- as a friend tends to tell me,

I should be precise -

wasn't I sharing

weal and woe for

fifteen million seven hundred twenty-four thousand and eight hundred seconds?

A forgotten tear spreads

over the calculator's display

and he cries or,

-despite my friend's insistence,

I can't be more precise-

Is it me crying

?

for lost time

a lost love

a lost leaf.