the eyes have it

There is something about moving
organizing
deciding which items from your life are worth keeping
worth disposing of
and worth giving a second chance to
at the local Goodwill.
Every time I move
or heavily organize
or fucking clean
I find pictures
letters
gifts
knick-nacs
household items
from an ex or three
that I have to evaluate and mentally categorize
one two three
what to keep and what to discard and what to
try and pass the buck
toss the football
to another sad sack soul.

This time was different, maybe.
Or perhaps the time between this and last was so great
or perhaps I have grown wiser in my old age
at spotting the little things
and the not so little things
a realization by an ex what had driven me away
perfectly articulated in a letter I had ignored

the eyes of another, so beautiful, and so
fucking hurt, in each and every photograph.
a glimmering model of perfection
my mind could never tarnish
my modern day monroe
with porcelain skin
and a world of hurt and of pain
tucked beneath her eyes
something i could never fix
no matter how she hurt me so.