this is the year

I empty each box beneath my bed, 

To treat myself 

To my perpetually put-off culling

Of you. On the floor 

            I’ll sift through 

Your piles, pausing

On each vapid piece of poetry, 

        considerate

But then sure,

That one 

   and another 

and the third and fourth 

Are too important to disregard. 

I’ll load my small fortunes back into their caskets,

Detritus better discarded, but 

Woven into my nesting 

All the same. A compulsive hoarder

Of memories, 

Not this year, 

But maybe next, I’ll stop 

Spoiling every snapshot, hoping 

The ending will be better

      somehow

Than the moment. 

Never able to surrender 

When things are good, no matter 

How adamant you are 

to put an end to it

Whilst we’re both still happy. 

A torrent, I rage through every conversation 

Wondering if 

          this is the year 

I sow our ending at last.