Purgatorial Bed

I knew I shouldn’t be mad,
I had, after all, ended things.
We’d both moved on, though somehow
Still in the same bed for the rest of September.
One bed we scheduled to keep separate lest we share
That painful quiet of the first few days. Now our paths
Only crossed at the most awkward of times: we’d both come home
To feed the cats, grab clean clothes, or make a sandwich;
I’d be watching a bit of Netflix when the lock would slide open
And a shard of glass would stab me. Shit!
Heyyyy. How are you? Fine. Just here for a sec.
As if more syllables implied affection, or anything other than
Bad timing. The new girl stood stiff at the door,
Like a bitch whose treat was snatched from her mouth.
You changed clothes as quick as you could and left.

I knew I shouldn’t be mad, but when I found
That discarded latex in the trash – my trash!
I was done. Maybe you didn’t need the neighbors
To see your streaked boxers icing the cake of clothes in the yard.
Maybe you had nowhere else to go and I was out of town
Anyway. Maybe we both deserve better,
But we won’t find it in the same bed.

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