Constellations

 I think about that morning a lot.

The slowly ascending crescendo of the basic sounds of life.

And yet those moments were everything.

The gulls and gills of Charlestown sung loud while we just lounged and

lived.

Breathed.

Were.

You scream at me as you put your last few items in your bag.

"You're just too much," you say, your body trembling but your eyes resolute.

"I love you," you say after the long, discomforting pause. "But I can't stand you anymore."

I watch as you pass through the gate to my building. I know this is it:  you'll move on to whatever the fates decide but I know that our paths will not cross again. I take a seat on the sidewalk, hoping to see starts in LA  but I'm left with a myriad void,

I look at the curtains, downed to block out the light, thinking of when we put them up. So much had happened before we thought it might be prudent to shut them out. Remember the nudist couple across the the street?

I'm waiting in my car, parked in front of a generational home. But I can't imagine being anywhere else at this moment. You come out through the driveway and the security lights turn on. I see a wry grin creep lethargically across you visage. 

'I see you,' is all I hear. The world softens for that moment.

"You snore a lot," you say with a noticeable sense of amusement as I crack the lids to the day.

I'm pretty sure I grumbled, and you just smiled and came closer.

I watch you pack and I am broken.

"Hey, I live down the hall. Just wanted to say hi."

I stare straight up into the sky. I seek no constellation.