Carmen Ye l moving
I am moving out of the house where we melted into each other. You are in every corner but nowhere more than the front door, where the last image I have of you is your walled heart and indiscernible eyes.
Some days, I swear I will come home and find you sitting on the porch, waiting. And despite all my promises to myself that I am bigger than the memory of us, I am scared I would take you back. I still don’t know how to quit your arms.
But now, I am leaving. Tonight, I am washing you out of these sheets one more time. Tomorrow, I will wake up to your shadow in this bed for the last time.
And if, some day weeks or months from now, you miss the way my eyes lit up just for you, come back to this house. Come back and find the doors locked and the welcome mat stored. I will no longer be here. The person you cradled is finding home in herself again, and you don’t belong there anymore.