These pearls around my neck are false,
the gold that binds them merely superficial.
Lately, I sit awake nights.The stones
in my jewelry boxes feel cold, the sparkle like a speck of dirt leeching tears from eyes.
He often walks home alone. Is it age
that makes me take pictures of children?
I wonder how his leather briefcase
would brush against my skin in heat.
Twenty meters apart, we are never alone.
Reflected on the dresser mirror, I trace wrinkles on my cheek, his long strides.
On zoom, the silver band around his finger:
he disappears around the corner
and sometimes doesn't come home.
Across the hall, his wife softly plays Chopin.
I brush my hair until three in the morning.
My sleeping pills are ellipses, unconnected dots like our hands exchanging mail the postman slipped into each other's box.