Box (13)

I am having a superlatively
hard time looking at the
house we chose, knowing
it is no longer my house, that
it will never be my home.

I am awkward, a guest,
an interloper into the life
you are building, choices
push us apart, then forward
on separate paths.

I sob, catching in my throat
the “Stop – NO!” that wants
to leap forth as I drive away,
my possessions block the rearview,
I cannot say good-bye.

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