Regardless of the moon or the owl or the postcard without an address,
I still turn over to the empty side of the bed
like a stone in the pit of the stomach without you here.
And the sun still drains like milk into the bowl of the sky at night
when all I can concentrate on is the many thousands of places
inside my body I do not speak of, the corners you knew so well
like the back of your own hand.
They ask me how we ended and I want to say we ended like fire,
we ended like rain and the dinosaurs’ extinction,
but deep down inside me like a pulse I know the truth:
we ended because “you and I” were a momentary lapse in judgment,
a wrong stop on the way to home, and we ended
without flame or ado, but in a way as simple
as one plus one equals two.
Someone packed their bags and clothes and returned the key,
and then someone else watched in silence
as they left through the front door
and never came back through.