I am packing you up in boxes,
our meeting and recollections,
explorations and deviations,
every sorrow and triumph,
our relationship flat-lined like this museum and its exhibits;
I am always tearing down my lives when they have ended.
When Ar— left me, the last stage set we shared was the first I took screw gun and hammer to,
tore the windows from flats and nails from their mooring and still I missed her as hands made busy work to keep from rubbing at my eyes, watery from weeping,
and I find this now again,
the day after Am—– and I made resolute
that we are separate and sadness rolls over
and here I am packing away the place that first ever brought us together.