The Things That Break While Moving

She told me
she is moving out
and my external hard drive
crashes:
The library of music
we collected together,
the poems that chronicled
the relationship evaporate
into the air and to another
apartment.
Take pots and pans,
and spice rack,
pack them into tubs
of memorabilia
wrap them in our
photos and love letters
tape them together
with tissues and napkins,
stained with mascara until
they are a black hole.
I fall like a neglected cardboard box from the top of her car.
I break like the things she wished to keep but couldn’t take care of.
I make sounds that she cannot hear as she drives away.
Breaking up with her is a light-bulb burning out.
My eyes adjust.
I use her empty clothes hanger
to unclog her hair
from the tub and sinks,
exhale and blow
out the toenails and skin
flakes from the floors,
paint the walls with
a fresh coat
of my blood,
furnish the gaps of the
house with my sweat and determination.
Finally, the mice and I sign a treaty,
sell the traps at a yard sale,
because nothing will die in this house.
I open the windows
and let the sun join me for tea.
The moon and I spoon
and I jokingly propose marriage,
Because I know la Luna
will see me almost every night
as long as the weather permits
and Phoenix has great weather.
But she will not come
home.  She lives with
packed-up memories
and takes her time.
I will not dream
of her return,
for I cannot sleep
until she is home
again.