Call Again in Morning

It's late, I say.
Too late for calling at this hour.
There are still strings of lights
and bunting up,
still wrapping on the floor
and plates in the sink.
I see you think
for a moment
and push your gaze past my ear.
You see confetti strewn hearts
beating proud
(but bleeding nonetheless)
on kitchen tile.
You see the clutter and the mess
and the remnants
of the soft dissertations of love
that clamor still
in the quiet of evening.
You slip away,
promising to call again in morning.
I softly latch the door.