I hate endings,

always have,

like when summer vacation was over and my mother ran

the vacuum through my grandparents’ house on

Long Beach Island, when we drove past Bageleddie’s

on the last day of our week and a single tear hit my grey leather seat.

When my grandparents sold that house the following summer

and moved to Myrtle Beach. When the last time was truly the last time,

when we couldn’t have known it—the last smack

of the screen door, the last leave.

When you told me you’ve been doubting us for a while,

that it was over and there was nothing I could say,

it was the Fourth of July and I was eating my mother’s

homemade mac & cheese. But I just saw you on Friday,

you told me you loved me. Remember, you kissed me and dug

your fingers into my back, like if you could pull me into you

you would have, so I didn’t need to leave. It’s too sudden.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Lately, I only watch movies I’ve seen before so I know

when the end is coming. So I can prepare. So my heart doesn’t tear

when the actors leave the screen, so I can sleep through the night,

wake up and eat.