I recall you leaving that night.
Your eyes, glistened and glazed;
pupils widened like the crack in your door.
The dark hall poured into the room.
At the summit of your shoulder, her and me made eye contact.
Someone’s phone vibrated.
Her shoe brushed back the shadows;
her hand reached the knob.
Your hand reached for mine.
She stood between the door and frame – arms out, a nested spider.
Your eyes rolled up – pupils were bobbing lures;
your hand, fisted in mine, was the anchor.
The door clicked closed. She left.
Your lures sunk, eyelids fell.
Your shoulders shifted forward;
back hunched, torso lowered,
stretched like a convertible top.
One of our phones vibrated.
There was a knock. I imagined she returned.
I must have since you reeled in your anchor,
my hand still hooked, to your chest.
We docked in silence.
That night I was the rock you called home.