11.24.06

Again,
I wake in your
bed and you are not here.
Embarrassed, I quickly put on
my clothes

and slip
down the stairs, up
the stairs to my own space.
My sticky tile and your wooden
floors do

not approve of my
shoddy impersonation
of you while away.
My limbs
inconvenient
and in excess of the
petite shadow I am trying
to fill.

My stride
too long, my smell
far too masculine, my
reflection in mirror lumpy
and pale,

and wherever I
step I know I am being
watched—every floor creak

a curse,
every slip on
wet tile an attempt on
my life. Your absence an outrage
to the

community of
air, objects, walls, and floor that
I still occupy.

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