Curled Soon my heart will stop, and I will balance my affections against a different feather. You won’t anticipate the pain that rocks me, my soles curled like a sleeping infant’s. I will gather the lilies and set them on our bed, but you will be missing, absent, gone; going up, going down, with a stranger brushing your arm in a hotel elevator. Yes, stuck with another man cruising and brushing his arm against your elbow. And I will not be there to save you from all the gossip. You will slip away with him into a corridor until you reach a door that he will open. Then you will enter the room and I will be missing.