When you go, leave me your number, although I'll never call. I will stuff it in a box while I weather out the fall, and I'll stuff that box up in the closet on a shelf that will prove to be a test on empty afternoons when longing crawls its way into my chest.

Hidden underneath my blanket, a sleeping bag's unrolled, and all throughout the winter it'll keep me from the cold. I'll cocoon my tiny frame inside and wait to generate some heat, and soon I will be warm and sound asleep, apart, on Kelly Street.

Soon the sun will come up quicker with the coming of the spring, though I won't be up to meet it, as my still-sleeping alarm won't ring. When I wake I will turn over to see the blinds leaving shadows on my bed and I'll see your sleeping eyes as a mirage in my groggy head.

I'll just be waiting on the summer so I can push these sheets aside; and though each year I just get dumber, I hope this time I will abide; and though so vivid are the details, like that silly smirk that used to spread across your face, my heartbeat will admit nothing through the posture of its pace.