Something Like a Diagnosis

The fight was about the truck. The keys,

the bill of sale, the dents. And then

my mouth did something I couldn't freeze—

I said the true thing. When

you go quiet like that, your hand

just resting on the door, not leaving,

not staying either, I understand

I've done more than just grieving

some ordinary argument.

You've always needed someone else to fail

first. That's what I meant

and said. It came like certified mail—

signed for, impossible to claim

it never came. Six days of nothing.

Your name in my phone. The same

gray silence. I keep adjusting

the sentence in my head, looking for

the part that was just anger. I can't find it.

Your hand. The door.

The dents on the truck behind it.