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I never learned to look at shop windows
without searching for the walking shape of your footsteps.
The umbrella abandoned beside a rusted bicycle
resembles you more than any living body.

On the wet pavements, an old woman feeds the pigeons
with the same patience you once had
for all the things I forgot.
Someone plays Bach in an alleyway,
and the notes drip down the walls
like unspoken confessions.

In the Red Light District, the red lights no longer burn.
They resemble extinguished stars
that never found their sky.
Between two drunk tourists,
I bend to pick up a filthy doll.
I carry it home — perhaps it’s the only prayer I deserve.

No street leads to you,
but all seem to have kept the memory of your footsteps.
Even the trams stop
in the middle of your thought.
And the bells of the Protestant churches
have begun to toll in syllables
that whisper your name in the tongue of the dead.

You taught me nothing,
except how to stand still
in front of a photograph
that no longer recognizes me.
To clutch the coins of the day
like broken host from a lost gospel.

A man begs behind Central Station.
His eyes hold the same void
in which you kissed me once,
without ever touching me.
It was winter, and every snowflake
melted with the weight of a liturgy
descending from your silent lips.

Here, between water and mist,
I have only one altar:
the bench where I once dreamed you leaving
in a city that no longer believes
pain can be sacred.

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