Is anything broken?

Your bags were packed and I didn’t know why — what had happened to make you want to leave?

When I try to speak my voice catches. I move in the room like a stunned crash survivor…. Is anything broken? Am I bleeding from anywhere? Is anyone else hurt?

I found you reclining on the bed. I don’t remember you saying anything, just a kind of stony impenetrableness, a reserved calm that spoke “It’s over.” To me at least. What you meant to say was unclear, so I filled in the blanks with broken glass and road dust.

I mentioned your bags. You said you were tired… of what?… and needed to go home.

And I became an amoeba, recoiling from an unpleasant stimulus.

How to fix this?

We coexist in this contaminated medium long enough to make gestures of non-combatant incompatibility.

Outside, we stand in the middle of the street, hug goodbye. You get in your car, pull away from the curb, and I don’t recognize the person who walks back to my apartment and begins climbing the steps.