She left a potential death sentence on the fridge,
my eyes roll,
relaxing into a coffin,
because I won’t sleep for the rest of the night,
when I am gnawed at by anxiety,
over what all this vagueness means,
and…
Christ,
what if I die?
What if she’s left the death on the towels in the bathroom,
or the pile of washing up that waits on the side for me,
from her dinner last night.
Is it a death sentence?
She tells us all to stay away,
but I can’t tell if she means she is a viral villain,
drowning in the death,
that flies all over the world,
or if she means that she just means that she’s in a mood,
not in the mood to see anyone,
so wants to socially distance,
in a small house,
where we live on top of each other.
Every couple of weeks,
she sits in her Oval Office,
playing final games of football,
while we wait,
alarms aching in the air,
without explanation.
Nobody knows why.
I’ve never known,
when we went from friends,
to cruel child with a magnifying glass and an ant,
when I went from Switzerland to Poland,
and I suppose I never will,
because there are never facts to be found,
or a way to unwind mystery,
in vague four word notes on the fridge,
that could mean anything at all.
