He says, you’ve been crying. I can tell
by the wet spot on your pillow. I say,
it was more like leaking, just something
eyes do. We danced inexpertly at the party
among his friends and family, two bodies
taught by years of proximity to move
forgivingly, in accord. A little stain of light
like a watermark held on to the darkness.
I watched it from the terrace. Life moved
around me, as usual. Glasses clinked. Arms
embraced. In the lights, far away and
unusually near. I am happy now, I thought.
He says, do you want to talk about it? I say,
it’s just the rain. Sounds rose up from the town
below. Dogs barking at various distances.
That was last week. New Year’s. Before
we came home. Before it came home to me,
at night in our bed—this feeling without
object—and woke me. Before it left me
again, as I know it will, as it is doing now.