By Kelly Keene

Why does the soft
shut of a door
feel like a slap
in the face?

Minutes that
pressed into hours of
my past waiting
for ghosts that
never showed up for me.

Promises woven in
subtle gestures,
slipped like coarse
rope through my
sweaty,
bleeding
palms.

Off handed, last
minute plans
mentioned without
times or details,
or the remembrances
that no, I was not
in that group chat.

Laughter bouncing off
tinted school room windows
unmuffled from
the ache in my
stomach of a lunch
eaten
alone.

When will I grow
out of my past to
embrace the fact
that you’re with me,
want me, and
only need solitude
on a work-from-home
zoom call?