My stomach aches, I lie down on the white-clad bed. Here, loneliness develops form, a shape previously unknown. I read signs and signals in the sun, the burning green grass. This is the same room where you grasped my arm, wondering at the scent of chamomile and ylang-ylang. Your laugh skipped silver around this spare room; it's echoing still. I would wrench even your name from here if I could.
I imagine you carefully packing your bag for the walk to work, how the bright winter wind pulls your scarf and you nervously tuck it beneath your lapels again. I see you coming home alone, how you search your pockets for the keys, how the crack of the door opening sounds in the empty apartment. You pour the single glass of wine, curl up on the worn sofa.
It has fallen dark, and I wait and wait to sleep, to slip away from this hour and the one before.
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