The sound of loneliness
is the crinkling
of the plastic bag
into which you put your clothes;
you no longer have a drawer in my world.

The look of freedom
is you pulling out of my driveway,
forever.
I long for you to stare back at me
for my eyes are screaming all the things
that I was unable to say to you.

But you gaze straight ahead.
The turnoff for 89 south is nearing,
towards: Boston, Manchester, and Nazareth.