Click

She said I guess you've made your choice

and hung up.

No slam. A click so small

it could have been a light switch

in another room.

Phone face-down on the counter,

screen still warm on cool tile.

I counted the ways I was right.

I'm still counting.

The faucet drips. The kitchen holds

its single note. Its breath.

I won the way a stone wins a throat —

by lodging underneath

everything she didn't say,

which was worse, which was the cost.

I was right. I was right all day

and something still got lost.