goodbye, backwards, blindfolded

my feet used to know that carpeted hallway so well,
as did yours,
but I only knew it backwards.

your hands on my arms,
my hands under your elbows,
walking,
walking,
because once someone stops walking they might never do it again, so please keep on walking,
walking,
walking,
please.

we argued in that kitchen,
every week like clockwork,
drifted apart,
and returned after twenty minutes of dishes or bathroom scrubbing or paperwork with an 'I see your point'.
like clockwork.

i was going to live there, once.

i remember the discovery of shit in the bathtub had never seemed so funny.

i remember how much you cried,
and you,
and you.
i remember how the pitch of your hum told me whether or not you were running around the house naked again.
the naked hum sounded happier.
that was the secret.

i remember the front room,
yes i'm on your routine,
yes i'll be here tomorrow,
no i don't know when the Reign plays,
no the bed isn't comfortable,
but what's waiting for me out there is a too-late bus stop and a sticky note on the door that makes me wish i were living out of my car again.

i remember innumerable cups of tea.
i remember all the things i didn't understand.
i remember the light claw marks you inflicted on my forearms, grinning, while i clipped your nails, and how i understood that perfectly.

there was junk scattered everywhere from the break-in,
but the walls still felt kind.

goodbye, i said, in the God room, in the basement, in the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, and the hallways my feet used to know so well you could have spun me in a circle and given me a push and i would still have walked them straight, but only backwards.

goodbye, i said, singing.
goodbye, i said, to the walls that still felt kind,
trying to carve that lesson into my bones the way you carved me, grinning, silent, and understood.