Home.

I look around
at my home
packed up in boxes
inside my living room.

The living room:
rarely used,
but for Christmas parties,
and grandparent’s visits.

All my stuff is covered
and crunched up
in bins and bags,
in cardboard and plastic.

I look at the imprint,
of me and of him,
where we kissed,
where we lived.

I look at the foyer
That we re-tiled together,
I look at the two
Never used bedrooms. 

The dents
we made everywhere
are all we leave behind.
I boxed up the rest.

Tomorrow I leave alone. 
This is no longer our home. 


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