Designated Day
The furthest thing from my mind a year ago, [no, last month] -- was any thought associated with the idea that we would have to coordinate a time for my presence when you were absent. But such is the business of cohabitation, and its demise.
Resorting to others to manipulate that very window of untogetherness, I arrived to retrieve my stuff. Our [your?] cat greeted me, rubbing against my leg.
Force of habit, I locked the door behind me, and knelt. Usually, his treats were in order -- so I went to the cupboard, where I found your note:
"Just get your things. And go."
In italics. No x's or o's behind it.
Slipping the key under the door when I was done, my eyes were closed.
And everything -- the hallway, my clothes, the suitcase you left open for me to put them in, the inside of my car, the clouds in the sky -- smelling like you.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2013 --
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