The phone rings once,

Twice, 

Three times,

Then settles back into the dark,

Left alone and silent.

About to leave the house

To have a night out for dinner, 

He grabs his phone,

Sees a missed call 

And a voicemail. 

“Hey, it’s me.

Sorry to call, 

I’m sure you’re busy. 

I just wanted to hear your voice…”

A long stretch of silence came

With only the sound of the wind

And a steady breath

jeong

this familiar sequence continuing

without its former partner…

a place on the kitchen island your body still avoids,

not out of longing,

but because the pattern was shaped

when two people shared this room.

The pattern remains.

You lock the door the way you were taught

by repetition, not instruction.

        Two turns.

                A pause.

Coming Home

I stood facing the door; frozen.

Slowly I forced myself to touch the handle.

The cold, stung my flesh.

Fear leapt for the my bated breath.

My lungs emptied on their own.

I inhaled deeply once more; held it.

It did little to calm the nerves

Sparking like an arching electrical surge.

A dozen years had passed since I visited last.

Those familiar tones started spuing all the lies

That convinced me 

I wasn’t good enough to be there.

A tear fell.

Valise

I kept the small case near my side

as the road bent through its off‑season turns.

Some days it felt light enough to forget,

other days it pressed against my stride

as if it had gathered the weight of the week.

I never checked what shifted inside.

It was enough that it stayed with me,

a kind of steadying presence

when the path narrowed

or the dusk settled early.

Once, at a long descent,

he knows he's fucked everything up

he's desperate, crude and corrupt

he's the brat with a beef!

the demander and thief!

he's the chief, he's Sir Scammerly Schmuck!