the end.

I.

You came to me with hands blackened from
soot, days spent searching chimneys
for all the things you loved
that had gone up in smoke.

II.

Morning. You were running late but
you crawled back into bed to ask me if I believed
that ***** things could still be beautiful.

III.

Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop scrubbing the stains from the sink.

IV.

We stand in poppy fields
***** high, and then the comedown
first dots like seeds, and then red everything.

V.

I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
Applying pressure to stop the bleeding
only works on exterior injuries.
I’ve grown accustomed to the silence
in the way that I’ve grown accustomed to the heat
I never really liked it in the first place
I just don’t notice it anymore.

VI.

I’ve lost my sympathy for you.
Not something you write in a birthday card but,
I’m running out of options for getting the message across.

VII.

This will be the last time.
This will be the last time, I say,
for the fourteenth time this week.
Dull body shaking. These hands
haven’t held something they loved in months.
Since the last time they were full, at least
a box of matches and anything
that ever made me think of you.

VIII.

Does this make me a bad person?
I don’t know.
I don’t know what to say when
you finally admit that you lost the feeling months ago
except, “okay, me too”
and
where do we go from here?
I will clean the dustpan anyway, beat the broom against the pavement
sit back and wait.
I used to think this house was empty without you in it,
But now I realize your presence only made me feel complete.
I seal letters and send them to addresses I do not recognize.
This is my return to normalcy,
the planted flowers in the windowsill
I play god with colors
and wait for the universe to stop playing god with
me.