Our lives wrapped up around rivers,
trees, a wedding dress and rings,
dried wheat in glass mason jars,
laughter here and there.
those mason jars shattered,
moments dissipated like
fog in the sun.
our moments lost,
now frail and fragile and stretched thin
across the couch we’ve shared for years,
across the living room we just started renting,
across the floorboards of our memories
and our waning admiration for our marriage.
hubris wrapped up in false stories
and strained smiles,
laying in bed next to each other
but miles apart,
our dreams frayed at the edges,
a quilt so old its threads have rotted.
the smell of turquoise across the kitchen,
flash quick into the rinnai heaters,
open windows to let in the sun
where only dust has settled.
our bones feel old,
burn to be free from each other,
chains bound around our legs trying to hold us in place,
our mothers and fathers crying
on their own couches,
wondering how this could have ended so quickly –
“we thought everything was good.”
apparently, we put on a very convincing show.
now we live in a haze,
separated by a wall – the guest bedroom
filled with my things, cluttered up against the walls;
I feel I am invading your space.
soon I will be away, out of this place that I chose
out of this place that I fell in love with, for us,
and into the basement of my childhood,
surrounded by the cast off things that my brothers
have left behind,
closeted up in sweet stale ceremony,
the failures of my hubris cast out around me,
comfort in knowing that now
I am at least
free to be honest.