Of all the roofs we slept under together
And there were many:
(The treehouse in New Brunswick, that crowded Hunter Gatherer Lair,
A leaky, creaky rowhouse on Grace Street, the cement bungalow near the park...)
It was the only one we owned.
And the first time we did not follow our tradition
Sleeping on the floor for the first night, ordering pizza
Living in voluntary poverty for the romance of it - the silent nod that said:
We're doing this together for another year. Cheers.
Our time together measured in years, in houses, objects
In methodically arranged book spines on shelves.
In the year we spent there, not much changed.
Maybe that was where we went wrong.
And so today, we sold it all, to someone who will never know what happened before them.
To them, history begins today
And for us, darling, the book has closed.
I told Lisa I was fine, but when my pen hit the paper the tears flooded my entire body
Overwhelmed me, just for a moment.
I broke down behind closed doors, because of the finality of print, of ink, of final chapters.
Tonight I set my phone alarm for 9:17pm, a number that means something
(Because in my great big pulsing heart, I want everything to mean something,
to point somewhere, to conclude)
And when it rang I glanced through the crowd, when the coast was clear
Lifted my glass just a little, in a crowded room
Made a silent toast to you and to me.
Goodbye, dear love.