By holy toledo
I used to sit in this chair
and watch you type.
I was entranced by the way your fingers
were a blur that told the screen
about last night's lasagna
or how boring the first twenty minutes
of the movie we watched was.
you told me it was your way of
letting go of the past
and accepting that sometimes
it would rain when you wanted to go for a hike
lovers would fight.
and that was ok.
the way your lips formed the words
that told me it was going to be alright.
the way the closed door told me that this night
the chair would sit empty.
your fingers had some work to do on their own
so I sat in bed, trying to make out the words
by the tap of the keys as they were pressed.
the way I woke up to the absence of those taps
the absence of your suitcase
and the presence of the letter your fingers
had typed for me.
I put it in my journal.
to remind me to throw away that chair
and that sometimes lovers fight.
and sometimes that's ok.
but sometimes it's not.
I stopped keeping a journal
I'm tired of being reminded.