Not Quite Goodbye

A/N: Here you go. Makeshift poetry. I'm stuck in this rut where I write about coffee and wine and occasionally a cigarette, a gender-ambiguous narrator, one or two male or female companions, a relationship maybe, that is either beginning or thriving or dying and exactly one sentence in the story/poem that is vaguely poetic and used as the title of the story/poem(whichever I feel like writing pretending to write at the moment).
And that's about it. Maybe, just maybe I should write something new.
End of italicized garbage. On to the real garbage.
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She is still around, I see her the first thing every morning when I wake up and the last thing every night before I sleep. I can't reach out and hold her hand, or tuck in that stray strand of hair like I used to.

We still smile, we still laugh. I make tea in the morning. She makes breakfast. She still makes the things I like. I sometimes wonder why.

We don't talk as much as we once did, it's like we're actual roommates now, now that she has moved into the guest room.

She insisted, I tried to persuade her to let me move out instead. She stopped talking to me until I stopped trying.

It's been two months. Why is she still here? She shouldn't be. Why am I still here? We need space, or so they tell me.

She attempts to leave every once in a while, calling me a callous bastard. I attempt to push her out, the lying bitch. At the end of it all someone cries. Someone walks out. Someone gets drunk. And it's the next morning. Everything is forgotten.

We want each other to stay so that we don't have to see the other with anyone else. That's a reason people assume. Maybe because it is easy, we don't have to think anymore. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe in spite of all the lies, a part of me still loves her. Cares about her at the very least. Cares about her enough to know I couldn't bear to see her with anyone else. Not just yet.

All I know for sure though, is that I don't want her to leave just as much as I don't want her to stay. And she feels the same way. And that should suffice, for now.

*

I'm still here. In this house with all our memories. That couch where we'd cuddle watching movies. That bed we used to sleep in.

He still makes tea every morning. I used to like to watch him make tea, clad in his favourite blue boxers, humming a little song as he dusted tea powder onto the boiling milk. I don't watch him now.

I make breakfast for us, occasionally pack lunch. I still make his favourite things, maybe just because it's easier to stick with the pattern.

We still talk, empty conversations, lots of silence. Sometimes fun and lighthearted. Nothing serious though. The word serious screams 'Run!' in his head. Or so I imagine.

I still lie. I try not to. But I do. What does it matter now. It's all over anyway.

We fight occasionally. Someone packs their bags. It's all forgotten once the night passes. Maybe that's how it should be.

It used to be love at one point. True love, even. Whatever that is. But it is not anymore. This had been over for a while, even before decisions were made. So it's okay, I suppose. Very mutual, as they say.

Maybe someday we will get over this and we'll leave this comfortable space we have created for us. Until then this is where I will be.