They are in the basement of a heated house.
It is their last night
before her airplane comes
and he is avoiding her
head on his chest
because there are cartoons on the TV.
It is a miracle they have made it this far
but a tragedy they have only kissed
three times this week.
So she sighs too loudly
on purpose
and picks up her shoes to go upstairs.
He stands with the speed of a seahorse.
He holds her
because that is what he used to do.
I love you,
he says it as if
it were an apology.
They kiss because they prefer even numbers.
Her lips are sticking to his,
giving up the remains of adhesive
that glued their lives together
in all the wrong places
and he laughs
because her tongue is touching all of his tastebuds now,
trying to savour the nothing that’s left.
He laughs
because she is still holding her shoes.
She walks toward the staircase.
She says
I’ll miss you,
goodnight.
He sighs too loudly
on purpose.
He says
goodnight.