I’m leaving

I'm leaving, she said one evening.

The TV is on, my thoughts are dry,

I give her no reply.

I'm leaving, she says,

brown hair, chapped lips,

dark shadows under her eyes,

my watch tight on her wrist,

my bruise dark on her mettle.

I give her no reply.

It's quarter after ten,

mundane talks on TV,

my head is dry of thoughts

and of the outside rain.

My chopsticks on the kitchen counter,

her housekey on the table,

this silence doesn't suit us.

Where is the static buzz?

I’m leaving, she says simply.

I’ll soak my skin in rain,

my feet planted in mud;

I need the sky to flow

through me in lucent waterdrops;

this living room is killing me.

I grab her wrist to keep her.

The two of us lock eyes.

Hot breath against her coldness,

like sex, but not quite.

Fingers

sliding

down her

back.

No shiver in her breath.

No flinch along her shoulder.

Perverted tango of our wills,

where I'm the one to lead.

Lips touch flesh

cold like alabaster.

Hot tongue,

small waist,

teasing,

tugging,

she's tired, I'm not,

I drink her to the last drop.

There are no screams tonight

in our kitchen, and on the counter

my meal of minced meat has gone cold,

my chopsticks lay discarded;

the TV is still on.

Somehow she seems disgusted.

She doesn't say goodbye.

I'm leaving, she said that evening,

five years ago and fourteen days.

She took her card, her passport,

her keys are on the table still.

I need to soak my skin in rain,

she said back then.

Beyond these smudged windows,

outside, the rain still pours.