The packages are sent.
Everything of yours
is out of my house now:
the sheets
the scents
the senseless arguments
and a dried turd that the late, great Marty Whiskertons left
during one of those weekend visits
before he passed away.

The deliveries should arrive within the week.
Until then
our relationship is in some limbo
not entirely dead.

Or better:
fully dead,
declared so by the best authorities
but not buried. not just yet.
The coffin’s nail
will be hammered
only when you sign off
on the package next week.

You can keep my stuff.
I don’t need any of it.
Besides,
lately you’ve only had
the worst parts of me.