two stanzas

I dream a mushroom cloud of foreign homes and nearly missing flights. my bags are stuffed with clothes I'll never wear and food I never asked for. at the departure gates you text me poetry that isn't yours. two stanzas I can't remember. in the morning there is nothing but another day without.

the letterbox is empty. your silence is a dagger through my chest. a black moth fights the ceiling fan and I am crippled by the memory of being what you wanted.