It is the knife edge of Halloween and you will leave tomorrow. The chill of this coast invades your joints like mold, fills your lungs with moss.
Your suitcase sways on the porch swing. Even the house seems to list, as if it were built of driftwood instead of deadwood.
We have a daughter in college and a mortgage. Your body can no longer work. All night, I hold you like dead leaves in my fists until the moon gives up on the last breath of yesterday held in my lungs.
You say your return is as reliable as the