129.

In ruffling through pages of sketchbooks
searching for a drawing of goldfish
(specifically, for the movement
and softness in their caudal fins),
you find the note
and even though there has been time
and even though it says nothing of importance
(something about meeting after work,
plans, a drink, something about soon)
and even though you have been
what one might describe as "fine,"
you are forced to put your hand
over your mouth because something
is coming up fast, choking or noise
or vomit or an animal cry
that is determined to force its way out,
and your face does not feel like your own
with your fingers pressing into it
and your eyes are the Mississippi
and everything is holding you too tightly
and the fish are still missing, swimming somewhere
on some other pages,
and you have a deadline
and you haven't done nearly enough with the day,
and the water runs faster than you do,
and everything but him has always run faster than you do,
and he
will not be coming
back.