I stand here counting the ways you descend from dark corners, nourished by nothing more than a voice caught on the wing. I think of you, and old words broom up like dust in my face. You dive into webbed days, suck moonlight from night. This is my last night. To lie here on a mattress on the floor is to rock to sleep a childhood that begs for one more hour.
Every door is a lesson in leaving.
Throw out old Christmas cards. Free the den doorknob of all those rubber bands. Give away the sheets, blender, and green plaid sofa. Need has nothing to do with it. The house is an argument of echoes and silence.