I am taking my clothes out of the drawer in the Ikea dresser we share. The Ikea dresser I took over, because I have more clothes than you. The drawer that you never close all the way. In the second apartment, I emptied out two of the drawers, so you can have them back. I felt bad.
I am taking down the books on our bookshelf, making sure not to accidentally take one of yours. The books that I color coordinated. Some of the books you bought and never read, I finished a few months ago. And I remember the time I threw some across the apartment, because of your carelessness. And I think of all the stories these walls could tell.
I am folding up our sheets. The ones I have to force you to make in the morning. The ones we've both tossed and turned in and made love in although rare. The comforter only you use and the big, grey blanket only I can stand. And I think about all the nights we didn't love each other hard enough and the mornings you'd kiss me before leaving for work. That was my favorite.
I am stuffing the throw pillows from the couch into boxes. The pillows that used to adorn the ugly, brown couch my mom gave us that was eventually replaced by your dream couch that you stole from me. The couch that caused us to argue because of your pride. It's a beautiful couch, but it was never mine. You can keep the fucking couch, because all it reminds me of are the nights of resentment that robbed me of my sleep and sanity. I can hear the birds chirping and the sun peaking out from behind the hill.
I am carefully placing dishes and utensils and glassware in between towels and blankets. Wine glasses you clumsily broke, the mason jars that nourished our mornings with mushroom coffee, and serving spoons we never even touched. And I think about all the parties we never hosted and beautifully made dinners we shared.
I'm rolling trinkets and souvenirs into newspaper, making sure not to break the delicate fingers on the clay statue we bought in Mexico City. And I think about our trips to Sayulita, Hawaii, Arizona, San Diego, and LA and laughs and fights and meals and tans and sunsets and dolphins and fights. The journey we had these past 4 years. You will always be my Captain.
I don't know what to do now. The room is empty and I am alone, and all I see are outlines of what used to be our couch, the bookshelf, the tv stand, and our dining room table. The indentation our bed made on the carpet, and the light wooden square where the forever shedding rug used to lie. I l look at what's left of my previous life, throw away the pile marked trash and donate what's still pretty, but not necessary. I lock the door even though I don't need to, even though you never did.
Everything is delicate. Everything feels so fragile. And I don't want to move.