a new friend is stuck in the revolving door to
my heart—my eyes, enveloped by faint lines and creases
like my mother who may never learn
to see my drink is half full, not empty.
my phone rings: happy birthday sung by my grandmother,
bouquet of flowers on the dining table,
four-day-old leftovers in the fridge.
things I cannot yet go through, sell or put away/keep
a loving partner who deserves to be free.
move to a different city, which final movement?
of a piece, a plant, a pet, a person, a party,
a meeting with a friend, one night stands.
one full day of daylight only leads to dusk;
on a Sunday eve, stop edging me, grief.