[055]
09/24/2009 12:51 p.m.

over the course of the night she hears the telling sounds of someone
galumphing over the old and creaking hardwood floors of her walk up,
and prays then secretly in the briefest of waking moments that someone
will turn the key and come inside.

anyone anyone, she says she says: inhabit my space. pick up all the same debris
on the heels of your barren feet, she says, contribute all your refuse to my dust.

in the morning every room still stinks of emptiness. her eyes pick up the details of
all the unmoved material things, hoping one thing will be out of place as evidence
of unseen visitors. the emptiness feels like screaming in her belly and chest and
she scrunches up her muscles.

lonesome lonesome lonesome