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It starts with a churn.
As if the insides of my stomach were a blender.
Knots are tied, tighter and tighter,
Butterflies crowd together flitting nervously.
And my heard thuds, listlessly. Like it’s run out of fuel and stranded on a lonely road
I’ve seen this enough haven’t I?
I’ve been here often enough haven’t I?
But why does watching you leave every time, feel like the first time, hurt as much as the first time. Maybe I don’t even remember the first time but I have a feeling it wasn’t pleasant.
I’ve often wished that dusty old suitcase, as you pull it down, would part with a handle.
Or that rusty zip would finally finally stop in its tracks.
Maybe the soul of that departing shoe could meet its maker.
Or even that sputtering engine of the shaky old taxi downstairs could decide to take an afternoon siesta?
But the world now knows not to indulge my silly fantasies.
Alas.
That handle will stand firm.
That zip will run its course.
The shoe will purposefully stride away.
That engine will be waiting for you, warm and ready.
You will plant a kiss on my cheek, hug me till my core feels warm,
And then say a casual ‘see you soon’ with a smile that hasn’t seen a day’s worth of gloom.
How I wish I could be that way.
Why must I be so sad about a phenomenon that is recurring yet has no true permanence?
To the cadence of your departing feet, I shut the door, clear the coffee mugs, send the butterflies home, telling them not to return till you return, and leave again.
Foolish, hopeless heart of mine.

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