Part I
When there was a knock at the door, I hoped it was you. I wanted it to be you.
Your voice was low, almost inaudible.
I held the phone and your words close.
You could have knocked at my door. Why didn’t you? I asked, knowing the answer. We both knew the answer. I was the one who pulled off Band-Aids slowly and scratched at poison ivy.
I can’t say goodbye again.
My voice too was soft.
I measured my words.
I conserved my words.
I know, you said. I can’t either.
and so
I jumped
Part II
again.
It wasn’t the perfect kiss this time
but the perfect kiss hadn’t saved us.
I was silent.
I listened to a woodpecker knocking, knocking on the tree outside your window overlooking Union Street.
Did you know that the woodpecker is a symbol of Mars?
Symbol of Mars? What?
Your quiet broken, you sat up.
Oh, wait. Mars. Ares.
Your feet were on the floor.
No. I didn’t.
You stood up and reached for your clothes.
I shifted into the spot where you had been resting.
Plutarch says it’s because their knocking is strong enough to pierce an oak and bring it down.
My pocket Wikipedia, you laughed. What are you doing while I work this week?
Writing. Can I work at the table?
You tucked in your shirt and frowned. You don’t need permission to work at the table.
Then you understood.
I’ll make some space for you.
I closed my eyes
enjoyed the rush
forgetting
Part III
I was in freefall.
It was a table for eight.
At the rear of the wooden table sat an unopened instant pot box surrounded by scraps of paper: receipts, open bills, torn envelopes, an unopened card from your great aunt, and a trash pickup schedule, as well as a Star Wars book and a knee brace.
Is your knee still bothering you? I asked.
You looked at me blankly. I had surgery last year, remember?
There were cords, cables, and chargers. I wondered if that was the aux cable that I’d been missing for a year.
Your keys sat next to a bulging trifold.
Once we stayed at a hotel and you told me to take your member card for the
complimentary breakfast.
Rightmost section, you told me.
Later, when I put the card back, I added a folded up note, the paper stamped
Marriot . It read: I ♡ you!
I recognized my old key on your ring.
My old keys had the face of a yellow lab on them.
You didn’t know
Part IV
I had changed the locks.
That evening, you stood at the table.
You looked through the cables and cords.
You drummed your fingers on the oak.
You picked up a charger and put it down.
Did you move the aux cable?
and I swore that I would never
Part V
fit in your pocket.
