Leaving

She came home around noon
Still drunk
And crawled silently into bed.
I hadn't slept.
I had spent all night waiting for her.
I was now taking shirts off hangers.

Later she woke and dressed.
She was meeting a friend in Santa Barbara
Two hours away.

She saw my things.
Folded, pressed, and snapped shut.
She knew.

She put her arms around me
But all I could feel were bones
And they were small and shaking.

"I love you more than I've ever loved anyone."
"I know, sweetheart."

We kissed and she left.

The afternoon sun retreated.
I stood in the apartment in silence.

I shaved my head and my face.
I showered.
I toweled my feet dry before stepping out.
She had always scolded me
For leaving puddles behind
So this time I didn't
Even though she'd never know.

I fixed the towels on the rail.
Even an act as simple as that carries weight
When it's the last time.

I broke down and cried
Harder than I had in years
Remembering the boy and the girl
With two pet rabbits and barely a bed
That had moved into that space a year ago.

I looked for reasons to not leave,
There were unwashed plates, and drawers ajar.
A bowl full of limes sat on the counter.
I had taken care choosing those
And now they would rot or be eaten
Either way, without me.

I turned the key in the lock.
It caught loudly.
I stood still, trying to remember its sound.

Then I boarded this bus,
And wrote this for you.