Bring me paprika, cumin, and nutmeg, and while you're out, think about this: Do you want to be in this relationship? I'd like an answer when you're back from the store.
Endings are an old stubby-fingered hand-wave at the mailbox. The crunch of gravel quickens under your wheels. You wonder, "will this be the last time?"
Endings are a story circle, a whiskey toast, a final shot.
Endings are descending quickly into the sinkhole--the 2 train at Bergen.
Endings are snot-smeared upper lips and butterfly barrettes.
Endings are pink pajamas at the 24 hour emergency room.
Endings are the state-sanctioned murder of a journalist mucking up the truth.
Endings are the quick hands of an insistent man shutting up your no's, He spits into your open mouth "it's not like you're a virgin." when you are.
Endings are the smack sound of crossing the line, the sour taste of your own blood,
Endings are a signed lease, an empty house, a one-way plane ticket,
Endings are the rearview mirrors of our memory.
If living is language, the language of breakups are -I-N-Gs, -E-D, the silent E. As in failings, sedated, remorse.
The answer is no, I don't want to be in this relationship any-more.
Endings begin a new ending.