The television’s on with the sound removed.
Two strangers argue under weather maps.
Streetlight comes through the curtain seam
And cuts the carpet into halves.
My cases are lined beside the wall,
Still carrying labels from the flight.
I haven’t opened either one.
I tell myself it’s just one night.
Nobody knows this number.
Nobody has a key.
There’s nothing here to answer.
There’s nothing asking me.
The kettle stops before it boils.
The bathroom fan won’t stay turned off.
A truck changes gears beneath the window.
Someone upstairs begins to cough.
I found a message on the machine
From Tuesday, meant for someone else.
A woman said she’d left his jacket
On the chair beside the shelf.
I played it twice.
Then pressed erase.
Nobody knows this number.
Nobody has a key.
I wanted room around me.
I didn’t know how much there’d be.
There used to be six missed calls
Before we reached the next town.
A time, a door, a loading plan,
Somebody asking where I’d gone.
Now morning can arrive unnoticed.
No list is taped beside the bed.
Freedom looks good written down.
It sounds different in your head.
I could open the black case.
Tune the strings.
Make something nobody approved.
I leave it closed.
The walls shake when the buses pass.
For half a second, it feels familiar.
The glass trembles against the sink.
The lock turns loose inside the door.
Nobody knows this number.
Nobody has a key.
For the first time in years
I can disappear completely.
For the first time in years
I’m not sure that’s what I need.