I feel the sharp mahogany stab my hip bone, wince at the sharp sting of freshly torn flesh; I hear the echo of wood and bone, feel the pain arise at the intersection of man and man-made. My bags, too heavy from the years of memories packed inside, push me back, trap me in the house I’m trying to escape. I wait and listen for the crinkling of the sheets, for the friction of the fabric signaling the intrusion you are about to make.
Instead, I hear only deafening, disappointing silence. You do not wake. And I, I do not stay.