Want

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In this room, the reader should know: crawling love letters, silent words, a clay feather, pictures of a dead grandfather. In this room, the reader should know: a table that cannot be moved until Sunday. Kept in place, belongings seek to be tossed away. Dumpster waits patiently to be filled. She did not think she could stand more waiting. He stood on the bed, soon in Texas they will be robed. There is the fold-away desk and the notebook that asks for more. The notebook is drunk on ink, her shoes tile the floor.

 

What the reader should not know: want.

 

She smells like herself today, the weather is so nice, etc. This was before the cream tasted like coffee, and cigarettes ashed themselves to sleep. She did not think she could stand more waiting. How long will the want last? The reader should know this. There is the coffee mug full of ash that piles itself awake. She has another month to wait. On the floor, his clothes. On the floor, a cigarette butt. On the floor, want waiting for Texas. A notion of a pool. The weather is so nice, etc.

 

There is sweat that drips from her knees. The reader needs to see this. Unlocked, the doors swell with wind. What the movers forgot to do. Unwait patiently—or—wait dispatiently. What she must not do. In this room: mess of missing, the over-used image of sunlight streaking in, bursting bins. The other rooms are full of empty.

 

The reader should know: are you from here? He said (fingers unfurling) you smell like you today. The moonlight swam around his silhouette, etc.

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