Alibi

Hours run out quicker when a deadline looms. You schedule things for next week and have to remember next week is a different timer zone, that next week is a different life entirely. You're not sorry. Do you hear me? I regret none of this. 

What is it you were trying to say? What story were you trying to tell? He writes you from across the ocean and says this is all your fault, but he doesn't realize you are older now than when first you were tangled in each others' sheets. I'm not here to be your manic pixie dream girl, not here to be an escape from the humdrum picket fence you built around yourself, that is not my story but yours. 

Suitcases lie open, clothes and coffee presses strewn around your bedroom. What life would you choose to bring, if you only had 50 pounds and a carryon to fit it in? The thing is I'm not worried, the thing is I am weightless these days, the thing is I was born in transit and transit was borne of me, the hydrangea on the windowsill has survived at least three lovers but now I think it is ready to give in, now I think it is time to leave space on the windowsill for something new to come. It's not that I don't love you,

It's that poetry gets so tricky in twilight, it
pulls the rug from under me it,
tells me carpets were made

to fly.