Slamming of doors, again.
A sound that's been repeated .
So many times , hearing goodbye .
Over , and over again.
Holding my breath,
for tires to screech.
Screeching to another end.
Your always leaving me.
I'm not good enough.
I didn't make the bed.
The eggs weren't quite right.
Alone ,
you say that's how I'll be.
Because,
you can make it without me.
I hear a door close,
and jingle of keys landing in the mailbox.
On my way out I pluck the last fall rose.
A symbol , a sign ...
"This is me letting you go."
Honorable mention
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