I walk barefoot across this room
where your promises once paraded around
like flashy glass vases,
loud and cutting as they shattered,
scattered like the rice
thrown over our heads
in pictures of long ago.
Instead of tears through the laughter
I welcome the silence.
Like a big warm hug,
it wraps me in its arms,
a small reprieve from the mess you’ve created,
lingering in the wake of bourbon stains,
and ashy filters tainted
with lip marks the color of sinful apples,
when I remember you once said
my lips reminded you of sweet cherries.
A different silence settles over the room,
the kind that comes out sharply through my nose
and leaves my eyes stinging with unshed tears,
seeing blurred out wasted promises scattered
across the hardwood floors
like torn pieces of long-forgotten love letters.
Later, I’ll start picking up the bigger pieces,
careful not to cut more of myself up
on your sharp and angry tongues.
Later, I’ll sweep the smaller pieces out the door,
making sure that my dignity and trust
don’t find them later
and choke on the little lies
should they choose to swallow them back down.
Later, I’ll wipe down the surfaces
of this life we started to build,
cleanse them and start anew.
Later, I’ll scrub down the walls of their whispers
about the nights you breathed her in
and she breathed you in
while I struggled to take in air.
Later, I hope to walk through these halls
breathing a little easier
knowing I stood my ground
while you walked out the door.
Later, I’ll walk this room barefoot
and know my feet will stay unharmed
as I forge ahead without you.
Not now.
For now, I’d like to wallow
in the shattered little pieces
of what was once
you and me.


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