you come in like fog in the early morning
before i know it, i'm lost again
i try to rub the sleep from my eyes,
but i soon realize that the opacity isn't external.

the mystery includes the following:
your whereabouts
how you wear your hair
the fullness of your kitchen sink
and also of your heart
how often you chew the collar of your shirt
which channels you watch
what time you go to bed and
if i'm bound to run into you again

someday


--

she sits on a park bench
wishing to be back in bed,
wishing to be back home,
wishing to be strong enough
to let him go.

--

"a couple months is nothing
in the big scheme of things"

she reminds herself of this
every time she lies in bed,
both at night when she pulls
the covers more tightly around her
and in the morning when she wakes.

"a couple months is nothing
when we have forever ahead of us"

--

she broke three nails while tying her shoes.
her headphones broke during her run.
the shower wouldn't get warm enough.
she bumped her hip into the table,
the stack of mail fell to the floor.
her pantry was empty.

and on the calendar, hanging on the wall,
was a date marked: September 18

'Baby comes home from Texas'

underneath, small scratchings read:

'make sure to buy some wine'