Unititled.

I’m in the in between. He still writes me from his secret hide-a-way in the arctic circle. No, not Santa, the boy who broke up with me. Each day I receive the recap, this many trophy fish caught, this many degrees on the thermometer, this many hours or boredom passed, this much of missing you.

And what he doesn’t know, I’m gone. My closets are cleared out, my things packed up. I’m not sitting there, freezing time as the days pass by, just waiting until he steps of the gleaming private airplane, his name emblazoned on its side. I won’t be there to say hello, to say goodbye. He won’t get to hear me say I’m sorry for nothing or to watch me not cry while he revels in his assumed self righteousness. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.