I wave goodbye to the depression

on the carpet where my bed used to be.

The apartment is now as empty as

the relationship that led me to it.

Living alone lasted long enough

to move on and short enough

for everyone to wonder

whether my next move is a mistake:

into my new lover’s home.

Because it’s supposed to take longer

to find the one, like searching for

a four-leaf clover in dense grass.

Friends and family voice their cautions.

They’d understand if they felt my knowing.

I call him Cristobal, his Spanish name,

my crystal ball—I see my future in him.

So I’m jumping into the clear wide-open,

heartfirst, the way anyone falls into the unknown.

My pack only fits a parachute.

My parachute is a four-leaf clover.