In June, there was the precipice.
August began with waiting, and then unfurled. One day I was in the old world, walking the yellow bridge, eating stone fruit at the water’s edge, carrying ivory train tickets tucked inside my notebook. Five days later, I was napping in an airport parking lot with my cellphone on vibrate and tucked under my leg, waiting for his call.
I am only half alone, suddenly. On these quieter nights, I am up late slicing hard boiled eggs into a potato salad, or reading long poems before stretching out across my bed in the heat, before falling asleep to the ceiling fan’s chain clinking against the extinguished bulb.