Photo: Mine
She used to know his heart rate by tracing his smile
The smile that has changed to sand
He has put a canyon between them
And not left any breadcrumbs
So she is in the desert of their gap year
With a stranger in her bed
Leaving without leaving
No fights, just remoteness that only a Familiar inflicts subtly
She stopped telling herself rationalizing stories to ask for Truth
“I’m okay, we’re okay,” he lies and his stiff smile becomes
A curtain of night, unraveling years
A braided knot in her throat forms around the words
She cannot swallow
She suddenly remembers something her landscaper once told them:
“Since your ground slopes, you need to pack more earth against the house so rain won’t wear down the concrete a millimeter at a time.”
They never did.
Better For That 
A philosophical landscaper. I guess when you work the land, you know when things go untended, they suffer. Relationships are the same way. If only we would listen. This made me think, so thanks for the words of inspiration. Keith
“leaving without leaving,” I understand (unfortunately).
Sorry. Unfortunately, it’s ‘a thing.’