Leaving someone behind is never easy. Having someone leave you is even harder...especially in a public place like a bus station. In this season of comings and goings, this poem echoes through the waiting rooms across America.
Katarina K. Guarascio's most recent book, They Don't Make Memories Like That Anymore..., is available from Casa de Snapdragon, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble.
A little after ten thirty,
we sit at the bus station.
My leg thrown over yours,
head rests on shoulder,
your arm around me,
fingertips absently grazing my shoulder
as though a lifelong habit.
The stead of your stare bites my lower lip as
you tell me where the wild things are
in a cadence so calm it cripples well woven defenses.
I tire of hiding my insides
from my out.
Around eleven the terminal heaves
and you join the crowd
surrounding the departing door.
Without a second thought
I give you my last cigarette,
a kiss for the road,
and a handful of carefully chosen words.
I crawl inside you then,
build a home from the bones of your rib cage,
a bed out of cartilage that marked sternum,
pillow from soft tissue between vertebrae,
I fall asleep against the rhythm of your heart.
I leave a piece of myself there.
I arrive home alone,
shortly before midnight,
crawl into the black t-shirt
you left on my bedroom floor.
Wrap myself in your left over scent
and try not to think about how
the ice of your eyes melted me.
--Katarina K. Guarascio
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