Begin with the end.
It ended with a quiet conversation,
after you had thrown me out
and I spent a weekend
on call at work,
or sleeping in the warehouse.
You said okay, come home...
I said no,
I was tired.
Tired of your need to control me,
tired of having to hide my art
because I married a writer
who came to her senses
and got a real job.
I should have seen it sooner;
even though when times were good,
they were wonderful.
Never had a better shotgun
on the road trips.
We had years of heartache and bliss,
wishing for the early days
when we sat for hours
discussing what kept us alive
in quiet conversations,
the end planted
in the beginning.