Hiatus

He thinks it would be wise if
we stopped talking to each other so often –
so very late into the night.

And so that evening is uneventful, uninspiring –
I type a paper, do some laundry, sit idle for a while.
At ten o'clock, with no reason to stay awake,

I lie in bed. The cars outside throw shadows
onto the bedroom wall when they pass. Moving across the room –
just an illusion. I twiddle my thumbs.

The next morning, the news travels fast.
It was him, thrown through the windshield
in the middle of town.

Friends keep glancing at me too long.
Now my thumbs are still and bitten.
He thinks it would be wise if we stopped talking –

Well, there you go.