My hands trembled

as I picked up the phone and dialed the number.

I called the police on their non-emergency line.

I’d never filed a restraining order before.

​

Operator: Okay, tell me about the subject.

It follows me home from ordinary days,

waits outside the grocery store,

texts me from unknown numbers named “anniversary,”

knows my routes, my playlists and my fears.

​

Operator: When did you last see it?

Today: between a green light and the chorus.

Yesterday: inside a clean shirt that still smelled like before.

Last week: it sat in the passenger seat and adjusted the rearview mirror.

​

Operator: Does it make contact?

Only with almosts…

blue bubbles keep popping up,

but the words are held hostage.

It mouths names in my ear at 3 a.m.,

writes remember in the shower steam,

leaves fingerprints on the inside of my ribcage.

​

Operator: Has it threatened you?

Only with never letting go.

Only with letting go too soon.

It breaks into my calendar and circles dates in black.

​

Operator: Any identifying marks?

It wears a face I miss.

Answers to anything I can’t say out loud.

Carries a ring of ghost keys to rooms I don’t enter anymore.

​

Operator: Do you feel safe?

Only until the next song, the next scent, the next Tuesday.

I keep changing locks but

it keeps learning the hinges.

​

Operator: Do you have evidence?

Yes…

a voicemail I can’t delete,

an empty chair at holidays,

and a heartbeat that skips attendance.

​

Operator: Sir, what would you like us to do?

Serve it papers.

Tell it there’s a boundary around my mornings,

a perimeter on my breath,

a distance it has to keep from the doorway of sleep.

​

The line goes quiet.

I hear keys clacking.

A throat clears.

​

Operator: I’m sorry, sir. You can’t file a restraining order against grief.