moving on (november 1)

you don't even seem sorry as

my eyes dissolve into two brown napkins,

the paper rough against my swollen eyelids.

you watch me, eyes earnest and

whoever said brown eyes aren't gorgeous was a liar,

because somehow you have never looked so handsome.

your hands twist, untwist,

searching for something to hold onto.

i keep mine clasped between my knees.

they can no longer be that something.
i tell you everything,

my speech interrupted

by sporadic pauses for tears and extended, sobby silences.

i will never forget how much it hurts to tell you

that i will never forget how much you mean(t) to me.

your arms around me one last time,

and i guess I'll be seeing you around,

and your face is blurry through a veil of tears, and

i turn away.

they start spilling down my cheeks like

the rain against the cafe windows.

there's this little old lady and she says,

“oh, you're leaving? can i have your table?”

and I brush past her in disgust,

which is not deeply felt because the

sadness is taking up all the space.

i sob all the way back to the car.

i wonder if you watched me leave,

your face in the window,

or if you stared down at your hands,

marveling at what they had taken apart.

you told me you would have done

anything to change things,

anything to make it right.

i would consider it if i learned

that you did not give the little old lady our table.