I smoke and watch her

pack.

The taxi waits.

Then I have a memory

of an earlier departure-

the scent of her

washed skin-

remembering the

ins and outs of

our arguments.

She's smiling as she

leaves the echo of

our space-

laughing as we fail

to finish yet another row.

The taxi's horn reminds us...

I pick through the remains

of her accusations:

those

that she broadcasts.

Then leaving,

sighing,

she drags behind her

-like wheeled luggage-

the life that we once shared.