He'll leave tomorrow. Drinking at cheap bars, I'm anxious to see if I'll notice.
If I'll sleep better.
I'm not so small. Pound for pound. My tight grip.
He'll be sent off with the cookies I couldn't stomach. Used charcoal I couldn't handle.
My mind races for sport as I sleep upon piles of clothes--folded, sorted--that never quite made it back home. Maybe they're in transition--finding a new home because the old one turns their insides like weaves. Because the old one is too small to sleep.
All the wrong people kiss my neck.
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