There is dust on the floor,
grapes and cheese that won’t last
in the fridge,
a pile of mail on the table—
each piece asking for something, surely—
morning sun coming through
windows that need cleaning,
three cats, sated, indifferent,
unfinished laundry.
Hands full, door closing behind me—
not later, past the sunset into tomorrow,
but now, I miss my home the most,
in this moment after I’ve left.
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