XVIII.

She never said I wasn’t welcome,

but I read it in the lines around her mouth,

the way she dried the dishes.

With his body interred, I found an on-ramp

and kept going.

For days after I left, I checked my bag.

Once,

twice,

five times,

eleven.

It became a nervous habit, feeling like

I’d left my hairdryer behind,

or maybe my candles,

but they were always at the bottom of the case. 

Another flight

another city.

My phone was always in my hand,

no matter how many times I 

thought I’d forgotten it. 

New apartment, 

old mattress.

Someone else left it,

I guess. 

It’s quiet here.