On the night of your departure

    'At Last' by Etta James played on the way back home, as if by irony.  I folded your towel neatly and tucked it in the back of my closet. I kind of like this tradition we seem to be making, so I also took the shirt you wore and all the things with your scent and placed them in a zip lock bag, then tucked it in to a small drawer as well.
    I ate a tangerine without listening to the images on TV, just how I showed you I did. I stood in front of the left over ruins of our fortress, I breathed in it's last remains and thought of the movie we made. The one that nobody filmed, and nobody wrote, nobody understood the plot and no critics are raving for. That film where you slept under stars and I slept beside them.
   I put the bed back together, mounted what some call a frame but looked more like a cage......The night you departed, I went back to sleeping on the floor again.  But this time there's a mattress, and I wonder if temporarily.
    I clipped my toe nails and those of my left hand. I didn't take a shower, and wondered if I should ever again. I wrote to my father just like you reminded me to. I didn't make anything in particular, but started practicing the act of doing so. I stared at the fan and listened to it's humming, maybe it's just another ritual in the making. And to tell you the truth I didn't look back, but I'm sure the sky was still violet, just like we left it.

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