She is the ellipsis that lingers after the last text you didn’t send,
three dots pulsing like a vein under the skin of a screen
gone dark at 3:07 a.m., the hour when the loft
above East Atlanta Village breathes its own humid confession,
mezcal sweat, weed haze, fried onions
rising through the floorboards
like ghosts of conversations you rehearsed in the shower
but choked on in the hallway.
-
She slips in with the rain that never quite
commits to a downpour, just a polite drizzle
tapping Morse on the skylight:
come home,
come home,
or don’t.
-
Her coat drips a trail across the oak table,
each drop a period at the end of a sentence
you started with “I’m fine” and ended with silence.
-
Your mother will stand in the doorway tomorrow,
noon sharp, umbrella folded like a verdict,
eyes scanning the dead ferns,
the sticky rings of last night’s spilled life,
a paper crane perched on the sill
where neon bleeds pink into the gray.
-
She doesn’t ask why the plants are brown again.
she just notices, the way she noticed the tremor
in your voice when you said “don’t come,”
the way she notices the duct tape
holding the window together
like the lie you told yourself about moving on.
-
She arranges your unraveling with the patience
of a librarian cataloging sorrow.
The minute you almost texted stay,
the second you blinked and saw her leaving,
the hour you spent convincing yourself
the bass from downstairs drowned out
the sound of your own heart packing its bags.
-
Years from now, you’ll open a drawer in a different city,
find that white glove folded with the precision
of a resignation you finally had the courage to send,
creases sharp as the edge of her silence
when she said “I love you”
and you answered with three dots
hovering like the last breath of a match
struck in a house you swore you’d never return to.
Except, you never really left.
-
She leaves only the scent of rain on pavement
that never dries, mingling with the ghost
of her perfume and those fried onions
from a kitchen that isn’t yours anymore.
-
It clings to the collar of every coat
you’ll wear in every storm
that arrives without thunder,
only the soft insistence of water
finding every crack you thought you’d sealed
with duct tape, ennui, and the lie that tomorrow
would be louder than the bass still shaking the walls
at 1:53 a.m., when the party ends and the loft
goes quiet enough to hear your mother’s key
in the lock you dropped and forgot to retrieve.
-
A small metallic sigh that travels through years
like a rumor you finally believe because it’s true.
