Buying a house for the way the snow huddles
on the front porch
on the coldest day of the year
is like loving a sad girl
for the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
You won’t see it often enough to make it worth it.
But you and I bought that sad house
with the snowless front porch
because you said we could use our imagination
and that would be enough.
I imagine lifeless snowflakes piling up
in our bathroom and kitchen now.
Leaving me is not the worst part of what you did.
It was leaving parts of you behind
for me to trip over when I get up
for water in the middle of the night.
I stumble past that bruise in the drywall
that I deepened each time I wanted to hurt you.
And my hands feel that twitch all over again
like I could set this entire damn house on fire
and live in the memories that you left behind for me
like worn-out clothes you couldn’t bother getting rid of.
And when I flick on the kitchen lights,
I’m slapped in the face
with that sticky orange paint
you let me pick out.
Now I never question what color regret is.
Memories crash in on each other like burning buildings,
and suddenly I’m living in a minefield of nostalgia,
terrified that at any moment I could be struck
with remembering that excruciating and familiar
warmth. It’s like forcing whiskey down
a recovering alcoholic’s throat;
it goes down so easy, but it burns.
Snow is what I need.
