because leaving is hard and sad, you said,
goodbyes, they suck, that's all I mean, you said.
The couch was missing cushions,
the popcorn tin was empty.
The holidays were over.
But who am I to rip a chord
out from where it's plugged,
to dig a fingernail in between, to pry
and draaaaagg a paperclip away
from its magnet.
Beer cans in the garbage bin
beside the downstairs toilet and you
stumbling out the front door,
driving to a place to order
six more drinks–to go–paying,
with borrowed money.