Now that the furniture's returning to its Goodwill home,
with dishes in last week's papers-
rumours and elections, crosswords, an unending war-
that blacken our fingers, smear their prints on every door pulled shut.
Now that the last month's rent is scheming with the damage deposit,
take this moment to decide
if we meant it, if we tried,
or felt around for far too much
from things that accidentally touched.

The hands that we nearly hold with pennies for the GST,
the shoulders we lean our shoulders into on the subway,
mutter an apology.
The shins that we kick beneath the table, that reflexive cry.
The faces we meet one awkward beat too long and terrify,
know that the things we need to say
have been said already anyway,
by parallelograms of light
on walls that we repainted white.

So take eight minutes and divide
by ninety million lonley miles,
and watch a shadow cross the floor.
We don't live here anymore.