The women often leave quietly
and without a fuss.
They have a right to
come and go at their leisure.
There are times, however,
that they leave and
they are loud.
They are louder than
a man can imagine,
or possibly stand,
and they throw their
shoes or their bottles
or their broken hearts
with reckless abandon
towards you.

Those of the last sort
are what hurt
the most, it seems
—although the other objects
do damage, quite the same—
I only smile, smile
with a terrible sadness,
What else is there to do?

The door slams and
the curses echo off
of the thin, plaster
walls of this emptied
apartment, and I am
left to pick up the shards
of glass, broken picture frames,
and pieces of the love
they carelessly
left behind,
smiling, always smiling.
What else is there to do?