There's a streak of sadness
that lines the backdrop of my facade.

There is much discontent
that lurks sinisterly beneath.

Gone is the confidence
that these legs might see me
through the ribbon at the end.

Instead I’m all strung up,
all hung up
and all choked up
with misplaced guilt and grief.

the worst is not knowing what was real
which "i love you"
which deep, longing gaze into my eyes
which last kiss with hopes of another
which caress that wasn't meant for another
i wish i could hold on to the good
but what was a lie
what was a dream
what was us


*s.q.

My momma always said
"it's not how big the suitcase is, it's how much you're willing to carry",
and I carried your bag, with its patches
knowing inside was your ***** laundry, that you slowly aired over time.

Even your broken bits, and holed jeans became sacred to me-
the smell of you left after on my skin,
but, you never let me unpack the whole bag,
always kept a side compartment up your sleeve.

And my arm slowly became numb,
when I realized that I still held mine,
even though the clasp was broken-
bits of me strewn about, laid bare for you to see

Though you did help fold  nicely,
you handed my pieces promptly back to me-
I wonder if some fibers stuck, some little bits of me,
like your neighbors dog's hair on your shirt

does my smell come back to you in a rush,
the feeling of our fingers brushing as I handed back your bag?
We are parting at the fork, both taking our separate things,
but are you giving up, or is this a temporary farewell,

before you fly through my door,
throw off your shoes,
set down your things,
and proclaim "sweetheart, have my bag, I'm here to stay!"