In the morning you said,
I don’t want you to go.
Outside the fallen leaves were folding—
an aerobic conclusion—you said stay
and broke open the blankets to stand in the chill
you said I have a lot of things to do today.
Your eye pressed against my shoulder
was a sharp command, a nod true as tongue.
I crawled to my car door and waited for
some symptom of regret, a weakness.
Instead, you lifted one hand in the air without a wave
or a warning, without anything for me
to come back to.
Olivia Rae Horn is a secret writer and poet. She works as a business analyst and lives with her partner in Austin, TX.