Orphaned

False footing on littered carpet,
he's rummaging, packing.
An unrecognizable teeshirt, a sock.
After careful nocturnal inspection, two.
I've been awake since he stirred,
since he didn't roll over to hold me,
all night.
You alright?
I croak.
Yeah, fine.
His voice sounds like glass, the room,
now empty.
He knows I'm in here,
choking back tears,
screaming in my head, frantic.
I feel like a child.
But I took the trash out yesterday!
Daddy, I cleaned my room!
I'm a good girl, don't you want me?
The only response I get is
fleeting shapes in the brief slit:
the door, frame, light, and him.
Some little sign, some secret language
coded in the folds of the
comforter, sheets.
A cold kiss on the lips,
a distant and surreal goodbye.
He floats away as a phantom,
and I wonder if the squeak
of the key turned is real,
or some forgotten note
in a song I played back in highschool.
It was probably about being lonely,
or lost love,
or lying in bed wondering
what I did wrong.

November 12, 2008
Copyright Tara D. Sturm 2008