Permission

Three weeks of being the only person

in this apartment, and tonight

I bought a bag of peaches without thinking

and ate one standing at the sink in the dark,

didn't turn a light on,

didn't get a plate.

Juice down the wrist,

off the elbow,

into the drain.

That specific sound.

When we were together I ate

like someone who could be observed,

like the table required a performance—

fork, napkin, the posture of a person

who had somewhere to be.

Now it's this.

The dark. The peach.

The sound of my own swallowing.

I stood there until it was done.

Left the pit on the edge of the sink

like I was coming back for it.

I'm not sure if this is what freedom

feels like, or just what alone feels like

before you've had long enough

to tell the difference.