A week passes, you forget your words. An illness returns, a fear wafts past your senses. You lean your head against the dog's, tell her the suitcases don't mean what she thinks they mean - even though in the end, they will - warm tears trickling down your cheeks to the satin of her ears. You think about love and leaving, think about the fires that have driven you to the ends of the earth, think about the grounding roots that have tried to bring you back. Later, on a stepladder in the storage unit that houses everything you own, you look at the future and try to piece it together like a broken crystal vase. Your friends open their doors. Your heart trembles on the threshold.
Holds a suitcase
and wonder where it goes.
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