in a 24-hour laundromat
he watches his socks
and underwear tumble in the machines
like all the planets he can't reach.
order he can't find in himself.
cautious animal of dark places.
his shadow arrives first,
shaped by violence,
he moves like a storm.
teaches people how to bleed.
he buys a cheap notebook
and writes her name on the first page
and stares at it for hours.
the loss is quiet,
the kind you can't hit back.
he was raised in a house where silence was holy,
an elevated voice was a prelude to a beating
and love was never spoken.
she wanted to know why
he couldn't say, I love you.
he opens the notebook
and sadness looks back.
now he sits with the pencil
writing the words
he never learned to speak.