That night, the blinds cut the moonlight
into slats that crossed your chest
and I knew the bed would be empty the next
morning. Your eyes that change color
depending on what you wore were empty.
You dozed while I got dressed, and hugged me goodbye
when I shook your bare shoulder awake.
I drove home without the radio and stared
at a blank computer screen, fretting
until the skin started to peel off and I picked at it like scabs.
The next day you set to work building a wall
around you.
I put you on a shelf with the rest of them
blank but still lingering.
Your eyes gleam in the blue light of the TV as
I try to sleep and I turn you to face the wall
but I can still feel you.
And when we say goodbye part of you sags
against me
fitting your hands and nose into their proper position
but I pull away.
I have to.
When I type my hands look like they're
fretting. The calluses are only at the top the pads
are still raw. Soft tissue
waiting to be salted.
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