Inventory

by Felix Jung

The burglars left small signs, like signatures:
a door locked partially, a window cracked, two
footprints in the mud outside. These months

without you left me dark, and now the bedroom
lights look wrong, lit up against the dusk. Along
the hallway, half a year ago, we stood here crying,

kissing. Love’s a thief, some say. But if that’s true,
then theft’s the opposite of loneliness. I go through
each and every room, unsure of what is missing.