It was the between time,
neither end nor beginning.
You, bored of summer,
speaking only of nights turned cold
and long in my arms.
I, desperate for solitude,
hiding in mountains and lakesides,
breathing each green-leaved evening
as if the last.

It was mid-September.

It was morning, and I slept.
You called,
announced that you loved me
that the world was exploding.
I dressed, went to work, watched CNN.

That evening, between desiccate clouds
we surveyed the sky for airplanes and a sunset;
the olive paint of a park bench peeling beneath us,
the serrate skyline of an inconsequential city consuming us.
I felt your pale neck, your silk hair, a spine
curve backwards around my outstretched arm,
and fit, as to a pillow.

You told me of the food at Windows on the World,
on the 107th floor;
how, out of curiosity, you browsed their website this afternoon,
made reservations for the 29th.
I didn't know to laugh or say nothing,
so I asked if you knew anyone in New York.

"No," you said, and closed your eyes.

I thought I saw the face of God in the clouds.
It surprised me. I hadn't expected the hollow eyes,
the firmly shut mouth, the well-trimmed beard.
I was about to show you, but realized
it was actually a sandwich,
a bowling ball,
your silhouette,
fading into the blue.

"I am empty," you said.
"Empty?"
"Empty, like a thousand dead seas."
"You mean, empty like Windows on the World."
"Yes... but not absent."

"I have nothing," you said.
"You have everything."
"Yesterday. Today, I have nothing."
"You have an apartment," I said.
"So did they."
"You have your health," I said.
"So did they."
"You have me."

For two minutes, you said nothing.
I distracted myself with a pedestrian down the block,
setting her groceries on the sidewalk,
saluting a wind-swept flag in front of a post-office.
She sang. I strained to hear, but heard instead
only the wind,
the sporadic voice of a president on the radio,
the shutting of an open window.

Then, you turned to me.
I rested my two hands on the burgundy wool
of your shoulders, pulled you to me,
gave you all I had to offer.

It was nothing and everything—
an evening's kiss.