We painted our facades to fit the seasons –
from pink and red to fading orange, to black and blue to gray.
I screamed feelings you countered with words,
you dropped promises like the stones you walked over.
I force-fed questions back into my mouth.
Each night, we filled the white noise with one-word answers,
drowning televisions but quiet dinners,
the voids so gaping I wanted to crawl into them
and go into outer space.
When I’m alone, the room swims with the memory of us in it,
how we breathed and danced in the rooms
instead of slam and lurch like heavy weights after work.
We left like slabs of rock too stubborn and cold
to acknowledge how we’ve been standing rigid for a thousand years, marked by our mistakes,
in front of our lawyers,
in front of our friends.
I’m sitting in an empty house, populated by cardboard boxes and
an audience of one. An ocean of replayed conversations drowns me,
but the silence speaks louder than
the slow transition of our motions growing
and farther apart.
When we signed the papers, I looked past your eyes and shoulders and saw a reflection I didn’t recognize.
My happier prior self flits from corner to corner, laughing, while I pick up the pieces you purposely crushed on the ground.