The Sigh

The wet cloth, draped

over the back of the kitchen chair,

like a forgotten thought.

My roommate's, of course.

Still damp, ready to sour.

I reached for it without thinking,

a small, familiar revulsion,

the clammy weight in my palm.

And then the sound,

a tiny breath expelled,

right before I hung it

on the oven handle, neat.

It was her sigh.

The exact one.

That weary, fond exasperation,

for all the things left out,

the loose ends,

the soft messes.

And I stood there,

holding my breath,

suddenly chilled.