On moving

It was a process spread over phone calls and meet ups, so there is no specific date attached to it. But the year-day is here over the middle weeks of May, of when I split from the person who meant my most, and the person I was with him.

Today I will remember one year from now. It’s the day I move on from the flat where I last saw him, from the year I’ve spent grieving. The bags are packed and the apartment is dirty. I woke up with a start from a dream of seeing his photographs in print, and the one he took of me after he drew constellations between my birthmarks, in the bed where I had the dream, isn’t one of them. I doubt he’s remembering me or this time today.

My feet are on separate bobbing ice blocks of homes, years and selves. The dew is still fresh on the grass and the commuters get on their trains outside, but there are shifts and movements in the tectonic plates of my life. I bled when I woke, my monthly shedding of unused cells and unlived lives.

There is more packing to be done, for soon the van will be here. I stand on the brink of opportunity, staring petrified into the light of first day.

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