Exchanging Things

The vein on the temple of the head becomes obvious after hours of circumlocution. The palpable beat of elevated blood pressure manifests in a headache that feels like being stabbed behind the eye. Clearly your red face, tears, anger, and frustration have taken their toll on me - if only physically. The endless conversation of "we wouldn't be here if you had..." becomes too much to suffer through. It's clear that it's been broken beyond repair and I can see that I'll be leaving with my things. I'll be taking back my hooded sweatshirt, my pajama pants, my favorite t-shirt, those books that I lent you, my CDs, etc. I'll give you back your things, and throw away your toothbrush that I kept, the soap we housed in our shower, the razors you used to pare back the stubble on your legs, the makeup remover, the facial scrubs - they can all be found in the trash outside of my apartment on Tremont. There's something missing, we've exchanged brutal words and material possessions, but you took something that I'll never be able to get back. You can't give me back the measureless hours that we spent together or the time I should have been acting my age and drinking it in beer. I can't get back those hours that I should have been acting irresponsibly with friends that I neglected in order to watch you sleep.