When you are away

Too many tourists visit my apartment

Asking directions to the narrow space

Between the word that is and the word that would be,

Dividing laughter into a hundred sharp edges,

Wandering empty rooms like ghosts.

I sit with the dying plants,

My skin alive with the memory of your touch,

Cradling your absence like a small child,

Tracing your name on top of mine.

When you return

I will forget

The cold air that blew through

The vents at night,

The deep whine of engines

On the road,

The sum of white bones

The dead left stacked

Against the wall.

I will believe

That my desire drew you back

Across the miles

Even though it is not my

Door you open.