Why am I still jealous of my old flatmate? We parted long ago.
I moved to town with my dusty desk and overloaded bookshelves.
She stayed in the suburbs, with her windowsills full of flowerpots
and the lawn neglected somewhat. The debris ended up in the attic.
She sometimes calls me, asking to stay with the teens overnight.
Where is she going? I don’t ask any more. She wouldn’t answer
anyway. She never did. Like shared loneliness, sealed with naiveté
and wishful thinking, her answer would only be an act of pity.