Roll up your sleeves. Throw everything away. Put the hurt in plastic garbage bags. Tie it tight and shut your eyes. No more eye tears. No more bag tears. Be gentle with the grief as it is as fragile as dust bunnies. Sweep it up with all the hurting memories, you know, the ones where you’re both gushing over the genius of Samuel R. Delany; from those fragmented moments when time was an illusion and you fall asleep talking about staying woke as pillow talk to each other. Where did all this intimacy come from? How much dead skin cells can I possibly shed? Cry a little. Dust a bit. Don’t lose mopping momentum. Don’t shut out the parts that ache.
Dale tiempo al tiempo. Diosito dijo que no era para ti.
The nostalgia swims heavy in the air like the fragrant Pine-Sol bucket. Don’t miss a spot. Don’t call him. There’s nothing to say like there’s nothing to make the floor dry faster. Sit there with your feelings and wonder, how can a place so small, fit so many things, very much like the four chambers of your heart.