Tragedy

The birds sing a song entirely out of season; I wake up thinking its Spring. Quickly the countdown reappears in my head: three days to departure, three days before this all needs to be empty and clean and the merciless judgment of what goes and what stays behind has been finished. Every night is a struggle against my failing discipline; the bartender pours another drink despite my shaking head and we all giggle in the sweetness of separation anxiety. The tab when it finally comes ends at four dollars and still I stumble home through the street. The sentiment is not lost on me. These may be the last days we spend together like this, ever, you said, and the words have been punching me in the gut ever since. I got so used to going that I forgot what it meant to leave.

Perhaps if I wear myself down enough times,
one day I will move and not feel a thing.

Perhaps that is the sisyphean boulder I will forever hope to leave
at the top of the hill.