I came home sometime after four with somebody else’s lighter. My keys hit hard against the counter. I stood there listening for you. I left my phone beneath my coat. It kept lighting up the floor. You moved over when I lay down like you had a hundred times before. Don’t turn the light on. Don’t say my name. Your hand is on my shoulder. I don’t move away. Don’t turn the light on. Let the room stay dark. You still think you know me. That is the worst part. I washed my hands in the kitchen until the water turned cold. Your coffee cup was by the window. The broken handle faced the sink. You asked me once if I was happy. I said, “Of course,” and changed the song. You never made me feel unwanted. I did this anyway. Don’t turn the light on. Don’t ask where I’ve been. You keep pulling me closer. I let you pull me in. Don’t turn the light on. Let the room stay dark. You still think you know me. That is the worst part. I could let the morning happen. I could let the morning happen. I could let the morning happen like I did not ruin anything. I could let you make the coffee. I could let you touch my face. I could let you keep believing I came home the way I left. I could let the morning happen. I could let the morning happen. That is what scares me. Your hand is resting on my shoulder. The curtains are beginning to turn blue. My phone lights up beneath my coat. You open your eyes. I look at you. I say nothing.
