the myth of coincidence



Myth of Coincidence


My name in curled script

unhinges from the wall.


I climb down,

jumping from

the bedspring.


I walk, close

the door on you

in your rain-wet shoes.


You do not ascend

to the fourth floor.


I clean eagerly, alone.


Your name

has not been

in my phone

for weeks.


Neither one calls;

neither one texts.

No number

ponders where

the other is.


I do not spend a month

willing this starry scene

exactly into existence.


The dream is never

thought nor concieved.


As usual, my eyes


uproot their greenery

from my landscape.