and now less than one month later

i picked up the last
of my things, collected,
and left on the patio.

his car was still there,
and with the curtains closed.
i'm sure he was there,
as you were at work.

i parked next to him.

two years,
three months,
and eighteen days later,
it all comes down to this.

and if it seems
that i don't want to be
here,
it's probably because i don't.

the tears weren't even allowed
to dry after one week,
before he was allowed to
sleep in our bed,
smoke cigarettes on our patio,
into that jesus ashtry we got
in jerome.

and now he pisses in the same toilet
where i once pissed.

and it's not the fact
that i'm still paying half
the rent.

it's not even the idea
that i now possess the bedsheets
that both him and i
slept on, while you were
there.

no.

it's the way
in which you spit me
as the bad guy
when i mention that
i never want to step foot
near
this place,
that was once
my home.