One week remains in the apartment with all the windows. The people from the triplex have already moved out, the people into whose home you stared late November nights and dreamed that if you ever could choose your street corner, this would be it. And then you did.
One week remains with your books on their shelves, your clothes in the closet. With keys in your pocket. There's too much adrenaline in your veins, now, to be sad, it's all packing tape and to-do lists, all forward motion. It's only that brief moment, late at night, when I lay my head on the pillow, that I count the remaining sleeps, that I wonder what it will be like not to have the view out of these windows be the last thing I see at night, the first again when dawn returns.
I'm sorry for all the times I left you, all the times my heart was already elsewhere though you asked me to stay. I'm sorry I made it seem like a part of me wanted to.
The truth is I'm always already one step away from the door, I'm always one step away from having my bags packed. Nothing makes as much sense as when I'm tearing the pages from out of the notebook until I find a clean sheet.
My head is full of stories again.
I have to find somewhere
to write them down.
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