Late Winter

Where do we go from here? I see you leaving. You are leaving through the patio. Little stone stairs are wet. Dark as rain. Cedar and acetone lift from carpet. Settle down. Symptoms of your leaving are everywhere. I am good at identifying them. It’s in the details. This terminal lack of eye contact. The house sighs roomfuls of leaving. Odes of uh-huh, of sure that’s fine. You knew maybe by Tuesday, Monday night. You took your dinner upstairs. While you ate, I unclogged the sink. I pulled three years worth of leaving. Gunked it onto the magnolias outside. I am an oracle. I read the future in other women’s faces. You’re shutting the screen door softly, respectfully. Your palms flushed red. Your mouth a colorless horizon. Little stone stairs wet, dark. Your laundry plucked from my laundry. Your soaps’ outlines stick to the tile. Cedar and acetone. The yellow kitchen light burns out. I see it. I am there to say goodbye. It's so easy, it’s like nothing. It’s like breathing through one lung.

Ezra (they/them) is a fourth-year Illustration student at OCAD. They primarily write for fun, for poetry and for comics.