We are both naked from the waist down,
too rushed and intent to fiddle with buttons or sleeves.
Our legs still intertwined, the blanket falls over
the side of the mattress and the dog,
annoyed, cradles his head with his marshmallow paws,
waiting to re-claim his place at our feet.

The room is a maze of boxes,
empty shelves and stark white walls
where the pictures used to hang.
There is no table left on your side of the bed
to put your full glass of water, so you drop it on the carpet,
bemused, sopping up the spill, you say, "I can't get used to this."
And I, ever filling silences reply,
"You won't have to."

Four days.
That's all there is.
How hollow and full I feel so simultaneously is
a wrench in my gut, I want to give you reasons and meaning
and words, but,
there are not enough.

And then,
there are just too many.

I roll around "I love you" on my tongue like
it will change things. Like, come Monday I won't be gone
and you won't be averting your eyes each time you walk
by my old apartment. Like if I just say,
'I love you' I might convey that this heavy phrase does not
have to be an end-all, a weighty sock in the gut that insists to
bear your children or be sworn your hand, or keep me here. Just...

I love you.
Right now.
Because you are here, because
you have wrapped yourself around me after making me come and every five
seconds or so you kiss my nose or squeeze my hip-bone,
say "you're cute" or pick the small scab on my shoulder-blade.
I love you.

We have come to watching Ken Burns documentaries to help
with our grief, the monotone narration lulling us to light dozing,
your hand on the small of my back, "This is nothing compared to World War II."
Somehow, it helps.

And this is how it ends. With piles of clothes and books
flanking us on either side, with the moving van in the driveway and
your warm hands on my neck promising,
"We will keep in touch. We will maintain closeness."


Four days turns to one,
And we have to wake up and live this day for real.
I have anticipated this moment over and over for seven months and still
it is nothing as I expected it to be.

I am sucking the chocolate off
of almonds to keep myself from breaking down and the fruit flies,
I have just noticed this instant,
have grown to house flies and
the dog is whipping his tail against my thigh, following them with his eyes,
and I want to learn how to be
more inside of this moment so I will not forget how you look right now but
I am somewhere else entirely,
silently praying my new home won't have bugs,
relieved, only due to this new infestation, to be leaving
and then,coming to,
I realize I am wasting our last hours fantasizing about flyswatters
and I kiss you.

I want it to be the final scene of the movie kind of kiss,
but there is too much tongue and then we both retract to soften it
and finally, after a few failed attempts, we both relax and it becomes
the kind of kiss that leads to sex but we can't go back, and
when I pull away you close your eyes and say, "Okay."

Okay.



Okay.

08/28/2013

Posted on 08/29/2013
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer