Thursday, September 14, 2006

Coming Home

Arriving home late at night, bag, sweater, suitcase peel off in layers, leaving a bread-crumb trail from the front door to the couch. I don't bother to turn on the light. At the sight of the familiar blinking cityscape through the balcony windows, everything I had wanted to say to him wells up in a sudden spasm of gall and tears, sharp sobs of broken glass that tear through me in thin jagged lines. It's over quickly, for which I'm grateful. I allow myself to remain prostrate on the sofa, listening to the secret nighttime workings of my apartment. The sound is just my own sound echoed back at me, like holding a seashell to one's ear.