Do you remember when I
had a life?
A lover once told me he liked
finding himself in my blog,
turning up in my story.
I don’t have lovers anymore.
I don’t have the elasticity
to let a man
make room in my heart.
The women who remain have
super-elastic hearts,
big enough for
all comers.
That must be fun.
I once wrote, sincerely, “a stranger is just a friend
you haven’t met yet.”
Now I keep strangers right there,
right in the heart
of strangerdom.
This is the land of
no rights and
no sympathy.
The land of
separate homes,
distant kitchens,
unknown bedsheets.
I do not learn the soap
you favor,
or the beer you keep in your fridge.
I stay apart.
I do this so that I never have to leave you.
But a suitcase
makes a weary lover.

2 thoughts on “the suitcase

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