This year I left and was left by:
A plastic trash can named Momo,
An angry old lady who was my landlord,
A happy old lady who was my grandmother,
The aristocratic bar,
An orange newspaper,
A man with an eagle tattoo,
The sisters Ghosh,
A gin drinker, and
A chai drinker.
The list goes on. And I go on. Leaving, leaving.
There were stretches of space and time that, brittle and fine, snapped apart. There were hatchets taken to you and me, bloody and brutal and sudden. There were surgical incisions, premeditated and planned. They all ache.
I passed you on the street last night. I was so happy to see you. I reached out to say hello. I stopped before I said your name.
I thought about the night we lay on your floor, exhausted after packing up your apartment. We had too much to say to sleep. We talked until the gray overtook the night.
You turned at the corner of the street. I was wrong. You weren’t you. It was just another stranger strolling along.