Marcescence

Today is sunny and the cold relented somewhat. Although a scarf is wrapped around my neck, I let it loose and let the wind brush my face. I walk, holding on tight to the key secured under my left glove.

My phone rings: “Likely Scam.” Once it stops, the screen smiles at me through you.

I loved the way you loved me more in the thought you built than in seeing me. You also loved me in the photographs you took. And for a while, I loved being loved like that.

The wind rips the glass door off my hand and slams it closed. Startled, I look behind me — it didn’t break. Each stair I climb chips my resolve. Your key, almost one with my skin, burns my palm. I turn it inside the wooden door’s metal lock, trying to delay each click. I watch you throwing things on the floor: picture frames holding the past, porcelain flowers we got in places we once kissed, us. Then you sit among the broken objects, silent. And I don’t know if you’re crying.

Fighting evanescence, you said. Thoughts don’t die. Photos don’t die. People do. You never look toward the half opened door in which I stand. I didn’t want a good bye. I don’t say one now. I hang the key on the empty nail, beside the others, and close the door. I take a step…