We hadn't spoken
since I'd asked her to move out
a month into the experiment.
I chose an irrelevant alibi
about what to do
with her mail
mostly stock statements
from the various jobs she'd had
across the country
where I'd driven her
to bedsides of dying strangers
both parties dressed in white.

I was gone at the time
but more likely than not
what I really sought to know
was if it had been real
if another's touch had meant more
than the mutual comfort it's become
in this age of humbled delinquency.

Her answer was curt and pragmatic
words made of steel
that sobered a fool:
"What have you been doing
with it
for the last six years?"

I looked around
our apartment.

Currently reading:
"Deadeye Dick" by Kurt Vonnegut.

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