You enter quietly so that your staying
will be less noticeable and we talk about things
like vacuum cleaners and fabric softener.
The words take on the form of my spine:
just meant to keep things up.
I press my elbows against my sides so that every goodbye
fits within the doorframe and I say: remember
that we used to throw paper planes around the house
so that we looked bigger and leaving seemed less significant?
You nod and say that you read somewhere that chewing gum,
depending on how many people walk over it,
stays in the street for very long time.
Fold your hands in front of my eyes and push until
we are firm enough
to not disappear.
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