Script for an Empty Hallway

The deadbolt clicked and the porch light flickered out.

I’m left with the tea I made but didn't drink,

the steam long gone, the ceramic handle cold.

I had the sentences lined up like a firing squad,

perfectly balanced, sharp enough to draw blood.

I practiced them in the shower until the tiles sweat.

I told the steam exactly how much it hurt

and why I couldn't carry the weight of your moods.

But when you stood there, looking for your keys,

my throat turned to dry sand and gravel.

So I said 'drive safe' instead of 'don't come back.'

Now I’m pacing the rug, reciting the better version

to the shadows of the coats hanging by the door.

The air is thick with the words I folded into my pockets,

becoming a heavy, useless kind of lint.