unpacking
a pair of her jeans
in my laundry bag
along with the Tufts sweatpants
we shared back and forth
it was inevitable
a note scribbled on
one sheet of white paper
telling me she loved me
and couldn’t wait to come home
pictures of us kissing
the notebook she gave me
when I left town
the one in which she wrote
her “this isn’t the end” letter
she was wrong, we both were
as I carried all the boxes and bags
from the little storage room
to the moving van in the lot
I remembered the spring day when
we filled up that little room with boxes
then I got on a bus, headed for
who knew where or what
and by the time I got back
it was over
17 November 2013
Oak Street
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