they say that breaking up is hard to do

He stood in my kitchen, where we'd had so many talks, shared so many secrets, laughed together so many times,

             and told me we were over.

                        I didn't believe him.

He stood in my kitchen, tall, relaxed, confident,

            everything I wanted, everything I'd thought I'd had.

                        I couldn't yank my eyes away from him.

He stood in my kitchen, recounted all his reasons, paused, his silence asking for my approval, my response.

            I was silent, for

                        all I could see were his dark eyes, dark but not mysterious to me.

                        Until now.

He stood in my kitchen, saying he was leaving now.

            I stood up, put my hands out.

                        "I don't understand," I said.

He stood in my kitchen, still tall, but his shoulders tense, his hands jammed in his pockets.

            I waited.

                        "It just has to be," he mumbled.

He stood in my kitchen, eyes on the floor, not moving, as

            I sobbed, my tears gushing like a flood, my shoulders shaking.

                        All I wanted was his arm around my shoulders, his hand in the middle of my back.

He stood in my kitchen, and

            I knew, by the way he rubbed his eyes,

                        he was crying, too.

He stood in my kitchen, finally raising wet eyes to me.

            "Can’t you see why?" he asked, his gaze begging me to give the answer he wanted.

                        I shook my head.

           

                                    "No,

                                                I don't see,

                                                            I never will,

                                                                        don't leave me."

He stood in my kitchen, one last time, his eyes sweeping over

            the curtains,

                        the plants on the windowsill,

                                    the spoon collection hanging on the wall,

                                                the photos on the fridge,

                                                            the cheery sunny yard outside.

                                                                                    He looked at everything

                                                                                                                        but

                                                                                                                            me.

            "Let me go," he pleaded.  "Just please let me go."

                        I couldn't fight it anymore.  I squeezed my eyes shut.

                                    "Yes," I whispered.  "But please . . ."

                                                                        "Anything."

                                                                                    "Hold me one more time."

He stood in my kitchen, his arms open toward me, but hesitated.

            "No," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.  "No.  No, I can't."

                        I closed my eyes, and remembered . . .

                                    His strong arms wrapped close around me, his head curved over mine, his hand pressing my ear against his heart, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to curl himself around me.

                        I tattooed the memory into my heart, my brain, my soul, any part of me that would remember.

                                   

He still stood in my kitchen, hunched miserably, when I opened my eyes.

        "You can go," I told him, wiping tears from my eyes (a losing battle).  "Just go."

                        He finally looked into my eyes, but I closed my soul against him.

He stood in my kitchen, and his eyes were sad.

            "I didn't want this," he said.

                        I turned away, staring at the wall.

                                    I couldn't believe him.