It was palatable as I got out of the car,
the worn grass, tiny anthills on exposed earth,
where a second car spent the summer.
Inside there were the empty places ,
where so many shoes had vied for space,
until they vanished, exposing bare floor,
in the wake of your departure.
Unfinished, ghostly, the echoes of a tea party
still faintly visible at the kitchen table,
though now I have to close my eyes to see it,
the words are indistinct yet faces smile.
I could say I am lonely, but I’m not, really
or that I am just missing you, almost enough,
though in truth it’s the constriction,
this change in the size of my life,
this narrowing toward the point;
at which I might vanish, my story lost.
I choose a spot in the ample space,
placing my shoes, I move toward my bedroom,
think briefly, then turn on my laptop to begin
reading the words my fingers create, tapping,
revealing, who it is that I am becoming.