I have been playing music more than ever
since leaving school, clean notes softening

bladed intervals of silence. My mother thinks
I’m doing well, but she has no way of knowing

the loneliness I mint and spend, how I am
a Midas of transforming the watering can,

the desk lamp, each plate and cup
into reminders of solitude. Engraved

on the moon: It is better to be alone
than unhappy.
I think of romance

and the life he took when he left,
the way summer rain now feels less

like an accusation and more like a baptism.
I water the orchids. I strain to hear a sound.