Indicator Species

You have given me luggage with other people's initials on it. This didn't used to mean something, but now it does; rather, it doesn't mean anything now, but it points to something—some fundamental unknowing, of which at least I felt I was too smart or too blessed to be capable.

This time I think I have to get used to your departure, or, more precisely to your absence—you have caused yourself to be left: Detergent into oily water, we scattered, to the edges where we are trying (but not succeeding—gravity + cohesion = like this) to climb up the sides, to perhaps find other oil drops to which we can cling.

If you showed up at my house, I would recognize you, but I wouldn't know you. The person I thought I knew (as though this is so atypical—even now I know it's not) went away, if he ever existed to begin with. Like driving through orange groves at night: The smell stays with you for miles after, but, having traveled in darkness, you can never be quite sure where it came from, or if it came from anywhere at all.