It's over. We are through.

You keep the sun. You always
were partial to the mornings,
pretending to sleep so I didn't have to wake up,
but you were probably just staring at the ceiling
lost in thought. I don't really need it,
the only time I like the sun is when it's setting.
You take your cigarettes and stray cats which
I'm allergic to.

I'll take the moon, but you can have the
time it was blood orange. You didn't even want to watch, I kept looking up at it as it slowly changed.
The nighttime drives and the parking garage top floors are both mine.
You have to give me back my poems,
words and ***** texts. Although I guess
you can keep this one so we have a record of what's mine and yours.

I'll take my soft touch along your spine and gentle kisses,
you take the rough, chaotic ones where our teeth clink.

There's no divorce lawyer to help us,
but I think you should keep the dances we've had,
because you are a terrible dancer.
I'll take the time you said yes,
to getting coffee with me,
because you said “why not.”

And so it's over, but I think
we ended up with more than we started with.
We'll share “Latch,” because I can never let go of the way you smilingly
mouthed the words to that song as you looked at me like
you loved who I was  and how you felt with the lights dimmed
and your eyes shining like the moon.