the hole the towel bar left when it fell
hasn't been plastered up these ten years,
or because the gutters never get cleaned
unless I stranglehold the ladder, or because
the weather whistles and strips
around the French doors through spaces
where insulation should be.

And I'm not leaving because the television
is your siren, or because household chores
remain non-negotiable, or because
there's someone else. It's for lack
of a held hand, a knowing glance, or the ache
for conversation at four AM. See,

even if there were a lover waiting,
I wouldn't be leaving for someone,
I'd be leaving you. And that
is the difference.

April 2005