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

darken—yours

uproot their greenery

from my landscape.

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