You leave traces of yourself behind—
desperate to be relevant.
You are the growing collection of jackets inside my closet,
the discarded receipts on display on my windowsill and
the odd pocket change scattered across the carpet.

Today, I will keep your smell on my sheets, but
when our sweet scent turns sour,
I will scrub, scrub, scrub my skin raw until
it bleeds reasons to leave and
I will listen.

I may not be a seer, but
I know when people fall out of love before they do.
The logic lies in understanding behavior.
When you look at me with the eyes of an executioner, 
I know that you are falling out of love with me.

If you ask me about love,
I talk only of tragedies.
I am repulsed by the things that I do to
erase my mistakes from my memories.
I promise you that I cannot handle another one.

While I confess,
I can promise you this:
You will be the last person that I ever love.

Featured art: “The Return” by Dean Gioia.