atimetowait

It’s been a year, and I still have those birthday cards, the five I got from you from over the years, and honestly.
What should I even do with them?
Trace your ledgers?
Remember some sense of your hands through the ink?

It feels pathetic.
Maybe I am too.

I slept on a couch for the first 6 months of moving in, not because of the lack of linen sheets and a bedframe.

I only seemed to get nightmares on those them, and not because I couldn’t accompany yourself in your own.
I’d kick, and toss, turn so much you wouldn’t get any sleep either—It seemed to get annoying fast, and the last thing someone needs while dependence is a lifeline, is to be an annoyance.

I made myself smaller in part, the couch got comfortable enough over time, but then those the nightmares never stopped.
At least I was out of sight so there was no notice drawn back in, I’d wake up fatigued — what’s new.

There were never any fights, I’m not the one for confrontation. You were birthed in sly remarks — the subtle jab type.
However—I think I would’ve preferred to been yelled at. Ripped open enough so I could at least have had an excuse to tear back. But it was just tears.
The one’s out of my eyes, to drip off my cheek, to hit the floor.

More likely a cushion.
Always out of sight.

And then the prospect of starting new after so long. The barely 20 something year old lovers turning into what everyone thought was just another easy 20 years, back to back. Could it have been? What drives a heart apart? — Rupture or fracture? My own negligence, more likely.

And that too much money ring that I forgot somewhere out in the midwest while manically doing the cliché of ‘finding myself’? — It was beautiful. And so were you.

I’m just glad I sold all the music equipment I owned before even thinking of doing so to that.
It’s out there still, like my heart for you.

In perptuality, a drift.
Somehow as still as it’s meant to be,
As the version that always would have said ‘I do’

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