Today I visited January in my mind.
Passing through snowflakes, over an ice-covered driveway, and up a stairwell. There, behind a white door, I stood in a peacoat with brown arm-warmers, one hand on the door knob, squeezing as hard as I could. Should I leave? He was yelling in the next room. The apartment was half empty. They were leaving. It was cold and blank. His screams echoed on the walls. Should I leave?
I drove by his apartment building a few weeks later and saw his couch in the dumpster. I thought of being asleep on it, face pressed against the gold and black floral pattern, a pillow between my knees.
I even remember the last time I saw you. March 5th, two days after your 22nd birthday, you pranced out to my car wearing that stupid fucking smile and that blue and red jacket and kissed me on the lips. I took you out to dinner, shutting down your every word. My heart was filled with a bitter resentment, pulsating, needles covering its surface. I took you home and didn't answer your calls until late that Saturday.
"Is this going to work out?" you asked.
"No. I'm sorry"
"That's alright. Goodnight."
Its not January, Its July and I'm on the highway. I dial your number. You don't pick up, and I listen to your voicemail.
I hope you never call me back.
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