She's leaving him behind a closed door
And she keeps the key, plain, in a drawer
In her bedroom next to his Valentine's Day card.
Every now and then when she sees
His name online on her phone she feels
Electric jolts like someone's trying to jump
Start her metallic heart,
Rotted and gone cold
The car that is her body didn't start until he came
Slid into the driver's seat, without hesitation
Drove it out to the edge of a promontory
Except...the body is not a car
Not now, not anymore, maybe never was
The body is flesh and bones
When she meditates, she accepts
And lets pass his eyes, that all
at once remind her of garden
Soil and amber sunlight
Streaming through autumn's leaves.
She used to think that she'd locked
the door but she glanced at it,
tried the handle, realized
She left it ajar. She hears his voice
All around, inside, all over,
Humming in the air
He declares:
“When you finish
building your house, I will reside
in you, but I won't wait forever.”
She wants him to know that today,
She started to open up the windows,
let the sunlight in, and it felt
Yeah, looked like his good morning
His hands on her face,
His hands cradling her
Soft and delicate,
Eyes focused—autumn
first breaths of zephyr,
and him asking:
“Are you all right?”
Soft kiss stirring her awake,
New air in her lungs
Humming alive in her blood
warmth on her skin,
The answer in their parting is not
“Goodbye,” but a softly spoken,
“Talk to you soon.”
