Closing Costs

He wears a watch that costs more

than my security deposit.

When he reached out, his palm was a desert,

a dry, practiced landscape.

He squeezed until my knuckles turned

the color of the packing tape

strewn across the floor.

It wasn't a greeting; it was a claim.

He wants to believe the air here

is fresh, that the radiator doesn't

clank like a dying animal at midnight.

I let him hold the silence.

My hand still feels the shape of his ego,

a hard, flat surface

against the reality of my empty kitchen.