The memory of this garage is bathed in woodworking videos, deep talks, expanding silence, and enough examples of you drunk dancing to last a lifetime.
I sit here smoking my cigarette I was so eager for
Yet I long to exit
I long to rip the butt from my lips and escape this prison of your essence
I don’t
I drag
I sit
I stew in every night that was you. Every Saturday and Sunday morning too.
I light another.
We always smoked two. But when two is two, two turns to four and four is a lot for one sitting. while Two is reasonable.
The intrusive thoughts of your smile double and bubble around me
Suddenly I’m lost in a memory of you holding me all too tight
My words choking on smoke as I cry
Your reassurance my guide
The cigarette falls to the ground
And with the thud of the butt clashing in my ears I’m back.
Back in the garage where my coping is bathed in sadness, regret, and a necessity for the past.

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The first week after moving back to my mom’s during a split between my husband and I.