Six boxes of books, already toted away back to my parents’ house. Suitcases of summer clothes and shelves of liquor all followed suit. I’m trying to take myself out of this place, one truckload at a time. I want to be as removed as I can be until the time comes when I can finally leave for good.
It’s not even that it’s such a terrible place to be, not really. Sure, there’s no backyard and I don’t particularly love the parking, but that’s not it. That’s not fueling my need to escape.
This place, this room – it’s a graveyard full of lasts.
I haven’t seen you since you ducked into your Jeep and drove away more than four months ago. Last touch, last kiss, last promise that everything would turn out okay. They all went down right here. And I’d be lying to say that each and every one doesn’t haunt me still. I hate being in my bed. I can’t sit on that side of the couch. I never park in that spot. I won’t even drink from that glass.
Maybe I’m naive to think that I can run away from some of this, to hope that even a fraction of the hurt will get left behind in these four walls. But the packing keeps me busy, and let’s be honest, what else do I have to hope for?