Dust and silk on your lips when you left my house –
murmurs, call me when you find your train
but you never did. Just existing in the last passenger seat
before the windows stopped, arching your neck to
see Christmas lights in towns you have never heard of,
pretending we own an apartment in every one
so we can be as far or as close to each other as we want.
When everyone else was outside
smoking cigarettes, you put your head in your suitcase
and smelled the tobacco air of my bedroom –
mouth full with particles of me, a sand-smooth tear sea.