You're all I have you said again—

You're all I have, you said again—

the fourth time this year. I counted.

Which probably says something about me, then.

That I'm the kind of person who counted.

I put the phone face-down on the table.

The kitchen light was on. The glass

of water half-drunk. The cable

of the charger coiled. The minutes passed

without event, without reply.

I didn't type the thing I'd written twice.

I sat there under the flat yellow light

and waited, as if waiting for advice

from the room. The water in the glass.

A drop forming on the rim.

Taking its time.

Deciding whether to fall.