Arrears

A draught on the neck where the warm just was.

The hallway behind me, filling. ●

The rooms I walked out of, their lamps still burning.

The kettle ticking cool in a kitchen three years gone.

My coat, leaving every doorway, again, again.

●

A corridor that said my name like a charge.

The bed I rose from in the dark and never made.

A door clicking shut in a house I no longer own.

●

The boy I was at nineteen, keeping pace.

The same boy, older, gaining.

The breath I took a second ago, closer still —

already behind me, already part of the weight.

●

A pile that does not settle. A pile that leans.

Taller now than at the top of this page.

Fed on the seconds I spend not turning,

fattened on the waiting itself.

●

The newest one always at my shoulder,

still warm from being lived.

So close now it dries the cold off my neck

with a breath that is only mine, coming back a second late.

●

I keep my eyes on the dark top of the stairs.

I don't turn.

I climb — forward, the one door time leaves unlocked —

●

and everything I have ever been

takes the next step up

to stand

where I am standing now.