I hate endings,
like when summer vacation was over and my mother ran
the vacuum through my grandparents’ house on
Long Beach Island, when we drove past Bageleddie’s
on the last day of our week and a single tear hit my grey leather seat.
When my grandparents sold that house the following summer
and moved to Myrtle Beach. When the last time was truly the last time,
when we couldn’t have known it—the last smack
of the screen door, the last leave.
When you told me you’ve been doubting us for a while,
that it was over and there was nothing I could say,
it was the Fourth of July and I was eating my mother’s
homemade mac & cheese. But I just saw you on Friday,
you told me you loved me. Remember, you kissed me and dug
your fingers into my back, like if you could pull me into you
you would have, so I didn’t need to leave. It’s too sudden.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Lately, I only watch movies I’ve seen before so I know
when the end is coming. So I can prepare. So my heart doesn’t tear
when the actors leave the screen, so I can sleep through the night,
wake up and eat.