Separating the space between our states
By moving couches,
Unloading the computer and the coffee pot,
Hanging pictures on the wall,
And throwing pillows on the bed.
I put away shoes and more stacks of other worthless things:
All of the numbered, priced possessions I now owned.
In the busyness,
I pictured your feet
Kicking the gravel in the parking lot.
Your fingers grinding the lint in your jacket pockets,
You were watching your breath make clouds in the air.
Waiting to see if I’d leave you standing between the yellow lines.
I drove away,
Rear view mirror blocked by boxes,
Axel grinding, suspension pressed low.
I added miles on miles and calculated the weight of my regret,
How many more miles until empty?
Scissors pressed to tape, brown boxes folded and stacked beside the road,
Hanging the clothes in the closet, I wondered, briefly,
If you were still standing in the parking lot,
But I knew all that was left in the lines was the gravel and a barely discernible ball of lint.
Meg lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. She works as a professional writer, photographer, and teacher. Her writing stays primarily in the genres of poetry and creative nonfiction. Although she has been a writer for as long as she can remember, she has just recently begun submitting her creative work for publication.