for my best friend, C.
she says I’m sorry
because sometimes there are too many
fingernails to clean
and too much skin to wash.
she doesn’t know
if truth is good
when scrubbed like that,
only it begins
to resemble her sadness.
so she goes away
and finds a room
where
she doesn’t hear the quiet tap,
she doesn’t see the blank windows;
she hears her own voice
and sees this space inside herself
where
the bags are unpacked
and the clothes are
shifted
to the side.
