Static on the Sheets

The microwave clock is a neon blue cut

in the dark of the kitchen wall.

I drink from a glass with a lipstick smudge

and wait for the night to fall.

There is a long, black hair on the pillowcase

that doesn't belong to me.

I don't know your name or the way you talk

when the room is finally free.

I stare at the ceiling and listen to pipes

shuddering deep in the floor.

You left like a shadow, a quiet click

of a heavy and indifferent door.