A poem written from the doorway. My hands turning the keys, my shoes already laced. The knowing before the leaving, and the ache before the goodbye. Your body realising the signs long before the mind catches up, and the silent dread knowing your whole world is going to change very soon.
I need to go back.
Every single time. I linger. My feet glued to your carpet. My perfume on your dresser.
The neoprene pullover you forgot lies tucked between my turtlenecks and jeans. They jostle for space on my shelves.
Sticky notes from your desk line my agenda. Tiny reminders that pull me back to you. Like your keys in my bag.
I’ll stay.
For a while at least.
I’ll stay even until my heart finally sees you. Until it sees reason and my body shakes from the uncertainty. I’ll wait until falling asleep nestled in your arm feels like crashing the birthday party of someone I don’t know. I shiver at this reality. It’s coming. I feel it.
I’ll wait.
I see it now. I already know how it goes.
Until I no longer kiss you goodbye. Because I once used to, brightly. Until I flinch at your touch. Until my hands no longer reach for yours and my heart feels nothing but numb from the inside.
Only then, when the facade drops. When the sheets keeping us warm are pulled to the floor and the heater fails to work, I will go.
Then I will leave you.
Maybe I will even leave me.
0 comments