The door clicked to announce its closure,
like the final tock of an unwound clock.
The truck engine rolled into life
and for a brief moment the
misplaced sound of a heavy metal band
raucously interrupted the morning,
then faded with the shift of gears.
He was gone.

His return tonight will be a playback
of the morning, in reverse.
Yet the house will remain empty
like the boxes left at the curb
on the morning of December 26.
The truth is he is gone
in all but body.
I am alone.

This is not the story I wrote
when I dreamed of a future
like a silly schoolgirl who draws
hearts on the cover of her
Civics book.
This is not the perfect life.
Not the perfect house.
Not the perfect love.

The assignation of blame is a futile act.
Responsibility claims us both as owner.
Not all dreams come true .
Not all love is forever.
Sadly acceptance does not mitigate pain,
but I will savor the essence of our memory
like a first corsage pressed into a book.
And I will dream again.