Today, a letter. The sun collapses
through the windows around me
as I read this facsimile of communication--
Your handwriting on an envelope
captivating, as rare
as catching my grandparents kissing
stretching their receding lips
at each other, as cousins pinwheel
across the spiked grass.
I push you out loud from my mouth
as sunbeams dance with the dust
from your skin. When you left, the rain
pushed the plaster from the ceiling into
wide glass pans.
I gave you a picture
of the cat, and took back
your set of keys. You carried
boxes out to the car hulking
in the driveway and drove away.
Even with a puff of smoke, exhaust
steaming in the wet air.
From the window, I watched the dry
rectangle of concrete disappear.
The cat watched me vacuum
all your footsteps away, buy new
curtains, plaster the ceiling
we fought over, sketch
your face around the edges of newspapers
and burn them in the garbage.
"He's asking about you," I tell
the cat, tracing the lines your pen
made, like papyrus under my fingertips,
like your hands
so dry that the wrinkles
in your palms were hard cracks.
I pressed lotion into your palms
and pretended to tell your fortune.
You never call
my name, it's too hard--
like your hand cupping mine,
your nails picking guitar strings
or drawing blood and shrills from my skin.
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