February, on a day that didn’t really matter. Sunny, lingering mud and snow, spring chatter. My van was empty, parked and expectant, And a doormat key opened into the last moment.

My bleary heart hobbled up totes and tethers, Into our canvas room of two lives lived together. Tasked with carving myself out of the picture; Hands become scissors to cut out what lingers.

The shoes, the games, it was subtle at first, The clothes, the shelf, it got a little worse, The desk, the bed, there’s so little of me left, The books, the letters, it looks so bereft.

And in each room, I crumpled and cried, And with each memory, I struggled and pried. But it was done, we were done. Back to the van, piled with scraps for one.

Key, ignition, foot on break, shift to drive, My foot is heavy, I can’t see, I can’t leave. This is really it, after everything, I have to go? You pull in- Fear, my foot lets up, I have to go.