Doorstop

A book shoved under my bedroom door,

spine broken, pages bent before.

He jammed it so hard the yellowed edges creased—

I don't know if it was kindness or some kind of plea.

We've been living parallel for six weeks,

rent and groceries, nothing else we speak.

Now this worn thriller with a cracked spine,

dog-eared on 207—his mark or mine?

The pages stay folded from being pressed

into the gap again and again. I'm guessing

he meant it as a gesture, something kind.

But now I'm stuck wondering what was on his mind.

Did he want me to read it?

Did he just need to leave something?

The book holds the door ajar

and I leave it there.

I wanted to thank him.

I wanted to ask what it meant.

Instead I let the bent pages

do the speaking for us.