The
morning you crept
from
the bed,
barely
aware, I heard
the
rattle and thrum
of
a diesel at the curb,
click
of the catch,
crunch
of gravel,
thud
of the door.
The
cooled depression,
the
ridge of duvet
along
my back,
the
false impression
you're
there. Already out
of
the cul-de-sac.