luckless I left you

Luckless I left you, opening
and closing. Opening, empty
hands. A stain spreading out
from your palm, a tacky feeling
in your fingers; a touch
you can't take back.

It's January and the shudder
of warm breath hangs in the
frozen air, sways as I pass,
leans in to whisper things
and dissipates before telling me.

In my room at the end of the world
I feel the beats between things like
a thumb and a smartphone. I am
moments between eyelashes
and sodium, hydrogen, and oxygen.

Water rushes through a pipe
and I put my head against it to listen.
A cat rolls on the carpet in
the sun spot, stretching, furry.
The earth turns under the guise
of moving us, and I wonder where
we will end up when it is done.