When you go, leave me your number, although I'll never 
call. I will stuff it in a box while I weather out the 
fall, and I'll stuff that box up in the closet on a shelf 
that will prove to be a test on empty afternoons when 
longing crawls its way into my chest. Hidden underneath 
my blanket, a sleeping bag's unrolled, and all throughout 
the winter it'll keep me from the cold. I'll cocoon my 
tiny frame inside and wait to generate some heat, and 
soon I will be warm and sound asleep, apart, on Kelly 
Street. Soon the sun will come up quicker with the coming 
of the spring, though I won't be up to meet it, as my 
still-sleeping alarm won't ring. When I wake I will turn 
over to see the blinds leaving shadows on my bed and I'll 
see your sleeping eyes as a mirage in my groggy head. 
I'll just be waiting on the summer so I can push these 
sheets aside; and though each year I just get dumber, I 
hope this time I will abide; and though so vivid are the 
details, like that silly smirk that used to spread across 
your face, my heartbeat will admit nothing through the 
posture of its pace.