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Aaron West & The Roaring Twenties
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Our Apartment
I pictured our apartment in the middle of Brooklyn and I pictured the bedroom and how the floor's still a mess. I pictured your office in mid-town Manhattan. I pictured you walking in. I bet you're late again, but your make-up's straight and you're smiling. It's just like it's always been. I had lunch with your sister and she told me it's over, that you're calling your lawyers, that you're not coming back. She says that she's sorry. Your whole family likes me. She don't know what you're thinking but she knows that it's bad. So, I walked back home, turned the shower on. I let the washing machine turn the water cold. I'll read it over again—the lines of the note you left. I keep hoping that I'll forget, that the words changed while I slept but I've got my doubts. You're staying at your parents house and I'm sleeping on the couch. I can't stand our bed withou! t you. I found enough of your hairpins to build you a monument, a statue to loneliness. Breathe it in. Let it go. I caved a piece of the drywall in. I'm replaying the argument. I'm icing my swollen fist. It's a lie and this isn't a home, no, no. I'm just skin and bones. I broke my cell phone cause it won't fucking tell me when you're coming home.
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