Stale Summer

(archived photos)

I'm always tempted to run away and leave a sink full of dirty dishes, a closet full of wrinkled dresses, a ring of stagnant liquid on the night stand from your glass of drinking water, blades of dewey grass stuck to the linoleum, our fragrant suds and bubbles at the bottom of the bathtub. This morning, I burned my knuckles making your toast. I dumped your coffee down the drain. I called your name from the kitchen and waited, watching the butter melt, hearing the faucet drip drip drip.

I'm always tempted to run away and leave a note detailing absolutely nothing, a stack of your sticky old magazines that have collected on the coffee table, photographs of me blowing butterfly kisses, a pile of crumpled up candy wrappers that litter my bedside, the shirt that I pulled off my back from the night before. This morning, I brushed my teeth using your old toothbrush. I sang along to your favorite record. I laid out on the carpeted floor and felt my heart breaking, watching the ceiling spin, hearing the clock tick tick tick.