I turn, key in hand, to go check the inner door.
It is locked.
I rise, half lidded eyes, to check the stove.
It is off.
I check my bus card. My wallet.
I find myself pausing in the middle
of the street to want to go back, to check
the iron I’ve never used. The candles I’ve never
once lit. The heating
that’s been off all summer.
I reach for you, half asleep, half
in another country where it was easier
and harder. But my bed is empty.
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