Moving On

Like sweeping a dusty hardwood floor,

I'm collecting all scraps of uncertainty into a tiny mound,

and disposing of them.

I had planned to lay in the dirt and dust bunnies,

collecting grime under my fingernails,

thinking of you and wondering if it was all

for the best.

But it's obvious now I've lost you,

and most of my respect for you.

The floor bites against the slouch-curve

of my spine

as I lay amidst the smell of fresh pine-sol.

I know the ceiling has nothing to tell me,

so I ask nothing of it.

For once, I don't need advice

to know exactly who

I never need to talk to again.