Photo: Mine


She used to know his heart rate by tracing his smile

The smile that has changed to sand

He has put a canyon between them

And not left any breadcrumbs

So she is in the desert of their gap year

With a stranger in her bed

Leaving without leaving

No fights, just remoteness that only a Familiar inflicts subtly

She stopped telling herself rationalizing stories to ask for Truth

“I’m okay, we’re okay,” he lies and his stiff smile becomes

A curtain of night, unraveling years

A braided knot in her throat forms around the words

She cannot swallow

She suddenly remembers something her landscaper once told them:

“Since your ground slopes, you need to pack more earth against the house so rain won’t wear down the concrete a millimeter at a time.”

They never did.

3 thoughts on “Leaving

  1. A philosophical landscaper. I guess when you work the land, you know when things go untended, they suffer. Relationships are the same way. If only we would listen. This made me think, so thanks for the words of inspiration. Keith

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