You called me late last night, your breathing all shaky
on the other end of the line. I thought for a moment that you were crying, and I pictured you sitting in the front seat of your red Toyota
on some dark street corner, with tears gushing down your cheeks.

I stayed silent for a moment, hoping my reluctance might encourage you
to tell me what you were doing on the other end of the telephone
instead of here with me. But all I heard was the crescendo of your breathing,
like you were struggling for silence.

Hello? I said finally, because our conversations
had never been like this. I could remember the way I once
lunged for the phone when you called, how quickly we would fall
into a rhythm, chattering back and forth for hours
while I paced around my bedroom. But this time,
I sat stiffly in the armchair, where you had once perched painting your nails
in delicate brushstrokes. As I waited for you to speak,
I found myself rubbing the crimson stain on the cushion,
the only evidence that we were once painfully natural together.

After a minute or two, I realized the line had gone silent.
You had hung up the phone without even saying goodbye,
without telling me what it meant
to receive a call like that.

I was too stunned to even cry.

Today, I thought I saw you at the grocery store,
your fingers dancing across the apples,
searching for the perfect one. When you looked up
and saw me watching, you turned tail and ran, ducking around the corner
and sprinting down the cereal aisle. I tried to find you,
but even after peeking down every aisle in the store,
I couldn’t figure out where you’d disappeared to,
or why.

All I can figure is that you’ve realized I’m not right for you,
but it’s taking all the strength you have
to stop longing for the sound of my voice.