The apartment is quiet.
i place my things into boxes
there’s no one to smile at
or ask about the weather
or offer my other half cup of coffee to.
He can’t see the fog from California
and i wonder if he feels the pain.
Possessions are excavated and moved around,
an old life pieced back together in haphazard patterns.
Facing a reality you’d do anything to avoid.
Strangers come and take your furniture.
They ask why you’re leaving
you bravely reply with a lie that you’re
“moving back to manhattan for work.”
You can’t tell them the truth.
That he left,
and he’s not coming back.
That you tried for over two years
and the last few months were the worst.
And you miss him like crazy, and you want him to come home.
And you wonder why it was so hard for him to love you in the first place.
According to the rules of Feng Shui, the 4th floor is the unluckiest of all.
Instead of dwelling on all this, “Action items” become your best friend.
You look for a new place to live.
You think about how to get through the workday as effectively – yet as invisibly – as possible.
You wonder how to be an ideal maid of honor at your sister’s wedding.
You connect with people who make you feel strong and alive
and quickly begin to feel happy again, even relieved.
You had both been trying for such a long time.
Others hand you money, you thank them, and they depart with the “things” the two of you had acquired for the home you were building together.
The last couple arrives, arm in arm. They look up at the high ceilings.
“We’ll take it,” the new tenants say. “Why are you leaving such a great place?”
I didn’t want to lie anymore.
“We broke up.” I reply. “He’s in LA. I don’t know when he’s coming back. As for me, I’m going back to the city.”