What Wasn't Said

The coffee cups sit where we left them.

His is already a skin film on top.

Mine is still steaming because I can't drink it.

Four hours. He left at eight.

The door didn't slam. That's how you know

it was real. When the door just closes

like any other day. Like nothing happened.

We fought about money. Again.

The kind of fight where you're both right

and both wrong and the math doesn't matter

because the real problem is that we can't

solve the math. The bills are real.

The balance is real.

The nothing-left-over is real.

Usually before he leaves he says it.

"I love you." Automatic. Small.

The thing that smooths it over

without actually smoothing anything.

Just a buffer. A period at the end

of the sentence instead of a question mark.

Today he didn't say it.

He just left.

I've been sitting here watching the cups cool.

Watching the temperature difference

between his and mine. His is already

giving up. Mine is still fighting.

Still hot. Still refusing

to settle into room temperature.

I don't know what this silence means yet.

I know it means something.

The way the house sounds different

when he's not in it. The way the coffee

knows he's gone before I do.