split ends

Torn between the gravity of what's happening and the gravity of our loss.

Pulling us apart

shearing my cheek bone from your chin, 

until we sleep beside each other like strangers. 

I want to go, but I don't want to leave.

And you want me to stay,

not here, with our lassitude and the toilet that doesn't flush,

but somewhere.

Beside you. 

Now I crawl into the claw foot tub alone,

and you wait your turn, sensibly. 

We used to live for that moment: clamboring, lathering, being close in the hot, sticky steam.

You would rake shampoo through my hair, like a boy,

scraping suds into my scalp,

tentative, tender, trying not to tug.

Always finding knots. 

I would kiss your chest while you rinsed out my split ends

licking water out of the hollows around your neck

our feet spread wide, trying not to slip. 

Quiet afterwards,

steam sifting through the screen on the one open window.  

I'd count the apples on our tree while you dried off, some up high, some down low,

wondering if they'd fall off sour or ripe.