Since I left you

a first draft

                                   

I can go where I want

when I want,

rock concerts, road trips, a week on the Mayan Riveria,

long late dinners with old friends,

the ones who quit coming around years ago

because of you,

but know me better than you ever could.

I stay up past midnight

and sleep till I wake on my own,

wield the remote all by myself,

have only popcorn for dinner.

There’s no more criticism, indifference,

or black hateful words,

the ones that made me physically sick,

emotionally dead.

 

It’s been two years

but still feels like diving off a cliff,

eyes squeezed tight, afraid to look down

knowing there’s no net,

only me

to run the house, pay the bills,

love the kids.

I suppose I should miss you

or feel lonely.

My friends still ask

     what took you so long?