i’m leaving you

March 30, 2009

dear you,

i didn’t like you when our paths first crossed. i probably haven’t ever told you that before, at least not in so few words. i thought you were a technical, over-analytical, left-brained pain in my side. and now i see you are a technical, over-analytical, left-brained pain in my chest.

i never met your wife, and you never really mentioned her. it was all just understood. all i know, i learned through casual conversations with the others. two kids, a wife. a presumably charming little house with a presumably little yard on a presumably safe street where the boys play basketball to impress the girls who are trying to impress them just by walking by.

i never met your wife, but i like to imagine her as a career-type who never fully appreciated you, though i’m certain she’s really not so. (this makes me selfish, childish, i know). instead she’s probably the type who wears sweater sets and a pragmatic strand of pearls and makes you eggs on sunday mornings.

a month ago i saw a movie and felt bad for the mistress the audience was supposed to hate.

we’ve talked. you and i. through songs and haikus and words and lifetimes. we’ve talked ourselves into circles, and corners, and into silence. we’ve mixed taped and mixed up.

i never met your wife, the one who makes you eggs on sunday mornings. and i probably never will. and you will never know the wife you could have had in a different time, in a different life. the one who would have stayed up until 3:00 am cutting paper cones into snowflakes, stringing them from the ceiling to make it snow just for you in july. the one who would have written sidewalk chalk haikus for you on the driveway and post-it notes on the kitchen counter (this is just to say…).

i like you like i like umbrellas.
i probably never told you that, in so few words.

i never met your wife who maybe makes you eggs on sunday mornings.

instead
without knowing how or why or when
I became a girl who will always think of you
while she scours sunday flea markets for the perfect

red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

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One Response to “i’m leaving you”

  1. GµårÐïåñ Says:

    This was very nice. I could actually associate with this in a weird way. Needless to say, loved reading it, thanks.


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