Unbalanced Equations

Rain pounds the windows as he
watches her put the last box into
the trunk of the car they bought
together. Her shoes slip on the wet

leaves and she almost falls. For a brief
moment he worries for her again, that
old protective impulse rises within but
he catches himself and wishes instead

that she’d landed hard on the wet
asphalt and cried out in pain. He
sighs and lets the curtain shut her
out of his life, standing frozen in

the kitchen where she’d baked birthday
cakes for him and he’d kissed the back
of her neck as she washed dishes and
where she’d told him last Tuesday that

she’d rented her own place. Only
when he hears the engine start does
he move again, to the couch whose
decorative throw pillows are now

boxed up in her backseat. He lays down,
his head on the hard, uncomfortable
arm of the sofa, and inhales deeply,
filling his lungs with air that no longer

seems adequate, as if the oxygen has
been removed. The first time they’d
made love her scent overwhelmed him, conquered him, wrapped around him

with desperation like her legs but tonight
the house smells only of cardboard and
must. He pictures her car speeding away
and ponders the physics of hydroplaning.

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About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
This entry was posted in anger, best-laid plans, clusterfuck, despair, fear, people, poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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