Two days ago, August 15th, I was fired.
For the day.
My first day away,
and my Love's rhythm changed. He showered and left (hours early) at noon, giving me the house, myself its sole use.
I'd been prepared for a full day away,
unsure what to do besides wait for the end. I could never get away with days unplanned //unstructured. I made a to-do list, and the mourning day rained. Too dark to see in my upstairs apartment, making me realize I hadn't moved in. Nothing unnatural light-source around, light bulbs still missing from chandelier arms. The upstairs was out, tripped in the dark. Half the list lost, hit the downstairs head on. Dusting, vacuuming, laundry by the hour, up and down stairs, the basement floor swept. Clothing superstitions had kept me so far, a choke hold of choices, folding garments not wanted. Lucky, or ruthless, or tender in comfort, professional, tidy, good daughter material. But eight bags of clothing, fresh washed and folded, set to leave by the door, a breaking-up ritual. The woman who wore them has been dead a while, But honor the memory, respect in a pile.
Routine you've been added, inhabited, now.
I will try to adhere to my petulance, how. I'm fine with only mandatory thinking of you- since with nothing to say, there'd be nothing to do.
A switch has flipped somewhere, an accident my guess,
where it all comes together, more than nothing makes sense. But I'm keeping routine as best as I can, and endeavor not fall lower, only improve my hand.
Opened door to clean foyer is a feeling surreal.
My Love deserves it, for his changing life's feel.
[ names redacted, heavily edited for pacing, and published September 24th, 2024 ]
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