Everyone leaves. But you could have stayed the night.

There's just rain on the window, the detritus of unappreciated decadence in piles on the floor waiting to become the furniture, eventually cleaned up, significance lost in the forced rush to keep going. The end tracks of the cd like muzak in a mall once the gates are down. No need now for the sexy nightgown, unearth instead t-shirt and sweats, grey with washing, from their hiding place in the closet.

You have until midnight, I promise. You could change your mind, I would not think less. How desperate would it be to take it all back, to call you back? It's worse when the phone does ring, not for me or for me and not you. The suicidal flicker of elation.

Comb through agitated and preoccupied braincells for an excuse, a reason to leave, somewhere that won't be where you are. The morning after sting of knowledge. You're not calling. Someone out there must want me without asking to be chased down, to be begged. Procrastination to nowhere, anxious foot taps too fast for the song, wandering the kitchen, rediscovering the tap water and the dry noodles, staring in the mirror and I wish I had someplace to go, something to make up for. Smoke for the sake of the pain in my chest, the scarring in my lungs, to watch the cars pass and convince myself this is anomaly, over quick enough.

You could call just to say you're not going to.