Charcoal

​
Nothing left but a rough sketch.
Three years compressed into this imperative,
where I lean my confusion against her body.
She helped me pack last night.
With a stiff upper lip,
she paid her own severance out of our petty cash. 
I stuffed my motives into random north/souths,
satchels, baskets, cardboard boxes,
and today she bravely totes my things
out of the house to my car,
her heart an automaton, 
her body in defiance of her mind.
In our driveway, on tiptoes, 
she embraces me.
She has wrapped her arms 
around the small of my back.
I feel her right hand ball into a fist,
to squeeze her collapse 
five more minutes into the future.
I rest my wrists on her shoulders,
my hands limp in the space
behind her head.
She places her lips against my lips,
and I let them rest there for as long as she needs.
Finally, I slip into the car, 
start the ignition,
roll down the windows, 
find loud music.
She has already turned away,
empowered by my gull-like lies 
and my swindling silences.
Her love that I toss aside
even before I hit the interstate.