doubled

My cross country saddle is astride the back of the couch and the living room smells of genuine leather and the light scent of horsehair.

The oil painting of a poppy rests against the wall in preparation for storage.

Black permanent marker stains my fingers, remnants of all the block writing I've done on numerous boxes for the past few weeks.

Thirty or so boxes are stacked in a corner of a friends attic. Things I won't see for a long time, things I won't need where I'm going. Things I probably don't need anyway.

I gave my hanging ivy to a friend. I don't think they'll make the plane ride sufficiently.

Our house isn't ours anymore and it's become cold and distant. I hug my sweatshirt hood closer up around my neck and move on.

create

I feel the moist spritz on my face and bare arms, the sun is craning its rays through the breaking clouds. The rain spreads the melancholy surface around completely. It fits this last day. It is afternoon.

It is in-between here and now, then and there. In-between Main Street in Potsdam, Sergi's pizza at midnight, Morgan ice cream at twilight and now. In-between early morning cartoons, you curled up in an afghan on the couch, bleary eyed and not so bushy tailed. In-between sharing a room and being roommates. In-between being just friends and being more than sisters. In amongst all the character deficiencies and chastisements which accompany the familiarity of living life as more than simply co-habitants, but co-laborers.

I feel the moistness on my face, the full moon cradled in a nest of dark clouds. The tears spread their melancholy paths down the cheeks. It fits this last day. It is evening.

Good night. But not goodbye. The rain will be back, as will the tears, but then again, so will you.