It’s been over now.

Over like the sky on the hills I see when I sit at my window, cold and dewy in the morning light. 

It’s been undone now.

Undone threads have been pulled and people have left and now it’s just me. No one is undone like me. 

All alone, sitting on the floor in between broken bottles and spilled bowls. 

I find my lost ring but I leave it there for you to find in the morning. 

The sun through my window is dulled but brighter than you have ever seen it. I squint between the rays. 

They seep through the cracks in the glass. The glass is pale. 

I am paler now. 

The window has been shut now. I wait for the day you break it in with a bat and crawl in to say hello to me. 

And I’d be laying next to the cold shards. Not quite moving. Not quite right either. 

Doubtful you would even be able to tell the difference. 

                                                 You were smarter then. 

   Back when the ocean hadn’t dried up you used to kneel in the sand in your white dress and then wade knee-deep in the water. 

Somehow you’d come out fine. 

And I remember that fabric was like my window. Pale and filled with bright rays I could never seem to catch at the right time. 

But that’s been over now. 

Now I’m on the floor, where a party was but isn’t now, and the only window is glued shut. 

A person opens their eyes in bed and smiles at the sleeping mass next to them. 

A worse person would sigh and turn over. And not even look at the way the fabric clings to your shoulders. 

When it’s heavy from the water. 

          I’m smarter now. 

Now that things have been stacked and swept under the carpet I have no way out. 

A sweet song was sung and everyone clapped but you. 

Sitting there sipping a broken bottle and not looking at me. 

No matter what I seem to do. 

Convincingly, you look sweet. And idle. And happy. 

And your dress hangs off you in a perfect way. 

Like it did then. 

The window is the same as it was when I left that morning. Just frosted over now. 

I can still see the sky seeping through its cracks. 

I can’t help but notice it’s all too intact. 

And I’m not missing a single bottle of anything. 

Like it matters now. 

If the window did break. Convincingly, sweetly. 

Probably I would have been on the ground already. 

Motionless and convince you were coming to rescue me. 

That you would come in golden rain. 

Or in waves of water, seeping up into my skin.

                 That you would never miss it, that you’d be there no matter what.

But that certainty only comes when there is no broken glass stuck in your foot. 

And we both know that isn’t the case.

I keep being convinced you’ll find me. 

Just like it was then. 

Yesterday, and the day before, and every day before that. And, 

I can’t prove this, 

But every day before that as well.

If we zoom out, I’m still on the ground and you’re still nursing your wounds. 

And we’re still farther apart than we’ve ever been before. 

  Which makes us closer still than then. 

Sorry for what I said. 

And I really mean that. 

                                          I am sorry.

I swear. 

I’ll swear up and down. 

Against the rain pattering on your kitchen window. 

Leaving the plants dry on the other side. 

I’ll swear over your pots and pans. 

And all your vases and bowls.

Which are all slightly wrong. Not right. 

Motionless. 

I think you like them better that way. 

You can sculpt out a knick in the clay. 

And take some off the top while you’re at it, 

You can sweep broken glass up and polish the floor underneath. 

You could clean up the blood while you’re at it. 

Pot and pans are easy. 

My window isn’t enough anymore. 

Almost too much now.

Right. That’s not what I’m here for. 

Half of all your stuff is mine. 

Not the vases. I’ve been meaning to ask about those. 

I’ve been meaning to ask about a lot of things. 

Not one of them involves the cast around your foot. 

But maybe I’ll ask anyway. 

Just to fill the space between us. 

Space that wasn’t there then.

But it is now. 

Who let that happen anyway? 

Maybe whoever’s curling smoke was always rising into the sky. 

Over the hills in my window in your kitchen in our house on my floor. 

Too bad.

              Smoke is too hard to clean off the floor. 

Not that you ever cared. 

You did then 

It’s too bad for it to end like this. 

Cold and motionless and slightly wrong. 

It’s derivative. 

Lazy writing. 

Oversaturated. 

Full of meaningless words and empty promises. 

But, looking back. 

It always was.

We can end it here. 

It can be a clean break. 

No mess, no broken glass. 

None of your precious pots are on the floor. 

That's the least I could do. 

To make up for the things I never said out loud. 

At least, you say, you’ll miss my window. 

Too bad. 

It’s broken now. 

It wasn’t then. 

Thanks for that.