It’s easier to be the one to leave.

Left behind, routine goes on as normal, my feet ferrying me from place to place. How odd to fall asleep in an empty bed. Strange to walk without the weight of another hand clasped with mine.

He leaves me a sweatshirt and I pull it over my head, roll the sleeves up my wrists, strain to catch the lingering notes of him and smell only detergent and my own citrus perfume instead.

How easily our lives have intertwined, tangled.

I step carefully out of my house like climbing from a pile of ropes and strings. Daintily. I call friends I have been neglecting. I rearrange the furniture in my room. I brush the dust off my sketch book.

I try to write

but title everything “Waiting”.

Littering my floor with crumpled paper.

Wading through words.


to reach the shore.


6 thoughts on “Waiting”

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