He slips and falls into your inbox like a cat caught pushing flowers off a counter: everyone sees the broken glass, but the guilt hangs unclaimed in the air above. Did you mean to wake the sleeping bear? is a question you're not sure you want answered, so you tuck it away and put on another sweater to ward off the cold May bluster outside. He belongs to a different season all together, and you're not sure you speak a common language anymore. You were never good at goodbyes, yet you perpetuate them into eternity.
Always one foot out the door.
She writes from her Brooklyn sublet, packed up and ready to depart again. There's something so satisfying about winding down a stay, isn't there? she preaches to your choir, and you itch to wipe your slate clean, restore this railroad apartment to who it was before you piled your hopes and dreams on its shelves, pack only words into your station wagon and head off to new adventure.
One foot out the door means you always have one foot stepping into another.
For every goodbye, there's a promise of hello.
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