told her son that it was time to leave. he tossed his head angrily in answer.

avoided her eyes. dragged his feet along the tile.

i wanted to laugh but i knew. i throw the same fit. every time.

only i yell louder. drag my feet harder.

the woman does not even bat an eye, says,

everything comes to an end.

and somehow does not seem saddened by this.

but i run this through my mind for weeks.

because even when i stare at a door

with the knowledge that it should remain closed.

with the knowledge that it most likely closed for a reason.

even then, i am trying to work out the best way to pick the lock.

everything ends. everything ends. everything ends.

but my heart still whispers, does it have to?

unwanted

in my dreams, i do not search for you.

i see you and light a match.

i see you and put my finger on the trigger.

i see you and run a marathon and write three books

and tell you how i have been better off without you

and i mean it.

i see you and do not note the way time has aged you.

i see you and do not wear grief.

i see you and hang grief in the closet

on an old wire hanger.

untouched, unneeded, unwanted.

i see you and do not stay in the closet.

do not think about the leaving.

do not think that maybe i am

the untouched, the unneeded,

the only unwanted thing in the room.

redlined

fact: we remember what we wish to.

the rest gets redlined, clean slated, washed and

neatly folded in the bottom of the sock drawer.

fact: i never said i needed you.

i only ever call because i am lonely.

or it is cold out. or i am lonely.

fact: nothing about you stuck.

fact: even if i remembered how forest fire bright

your eyes are, how flickering and wild,

(which i don’t)

i would not write about you.

fact: see, i write only about important things.

the kind that make your chest ache,

or your knees rattle. so,

fact: this is really more about me

and how i am forgetting you slowly

and how frustrating it is that

the sun is high and i miss you.

fact: i still haven’t made any space for you in the dresser.

the memories are all stacked on the bed. piles and piles.

and i will get to them soon. someday soon. really soon.

fact: usually, i am up well past midnight

folding and unfolding.

trying to get the corners right.

trying to figure out

the best place to keep you hidden.

nerves

my lungs cage restless moths,

frail little creatures.

too big and yet too fragile

to be moved.

too wild to be plucked out by the wing.

they are 3 AM dancing.

and somehow i am shoes in hand and anxious,

the only one with a curfew.