He doesn’t stare at me anymore. He doesn’t stare deep into my eyes like we found a resource of love. He doesn’t stare anymore like we shared a common understanding of attraction that existed under the radar, like the slow steady hum of the refrigerator.

No, now his eyes look at me with a common look, the light snuffed out like hitting the switch just before hitting the bed after an exhausting day. His stare no loner lingers, I am part of the clean sweep of the room. He looks beyond me, his stare is non-specific. I am a blur, a tree in the background.

No, he doesn’t stare at me anymore. He packed his stare up, reserving it for distant destinations in far away places. Yes, he packed up his stare and sent it to destinations that are beyond my reach and to places where I cannot go.