Letter of Resignation

Well, I walked down to my telegraph wire, thinking
maybe there'd be a message,
maybe it'd be you
but no.
It would not be you again.
Dry heat. Gravel in my shoes. Remembering.
How I hated you and how I loved
the idea of being in love with you.
How you had your house in the woods,
and I my tiny broken car.
A meteorite had smashed through
the windshield and now sat in the front seat.
It didn't matter.
I had nowhere to go anymore.
I'd surrendered to my life of
dust and craters and metallic tap water
the minute I woke up alone
the tips of my fingers aching
in your bed.
I could've fooled myself then,
said I'd been playing the piano while you
lifted up my hair and kissed my neck,
like you did,
once.
I could've fooled myself
into remembering double
but I couldn't have.
Now you have everywhere to go.
You have everyone to be.
You are waiting to dance,
to burst into a thousand new pieces
and stick like pollen to the skins of strangers;
I am waiting to crawl
into my dashboard and erase
everything I called my history.