There's nothing poetic about endings.
There is only the twisting, grinding, ear-scraping noise of
Unraveling rusted steel cable, wound tightly. Not meant to come apart.
It was never meant to come apart.
There is only the flat smell of hastily packed cardboard boxes
the strangeness of new, empty beds.
The dark, where unfamiliar.
There's nothing easy about the telling.
About watching the eyes of people who know you
Realize that they know you less, with cables now unraveled.
There is only a pair of eyes, set northward.
And hands, unwaivering, gripping the wheel.