Emily Kirchner

A puzzle forms one picture,
but multitudes when scattered.
There are more ways of splitting up
than being together.

There’s the breakup of
“I’m fifteen years old,
and afraid my cause of death will be
“lack of prom date.”

There’s the fakeup breakup
The B-rated breakup
The “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Breakup.”

There’s the breakup
Where every 1 a.m. drive back to their house
is punctuated with the promise of
“This is the last time,”
and you still share everything
but a future.

There’s the breakup of “I feel like you dumped me
even though we were never together,
but feeding on fantasy left me starving.”

There’s the breakup of
“I'll miss your dog a lot more than I’ll miss you.”

There’s the ghost of a ghost breakup
Where you miss being haunted,
even if the specter was
a disembodied text message
floating over your head
like an umbrella,
Shielding you from a rain date.

There’s the breakup where you are
trains on parallel tracks
Identical in opposite directions,
Racing at the speed of fight.
If you touch, you crash.

There’s the breakup where you’re not allowed to be sad
because you’re the one separating
from a conjoined twin.
You fear splitting vital organs,
But when you uproot the ventricles,
they branch off and bloom into gardens.

There’s the breakup where you move out,
Hauling boxes from the basement,
Weighted years taped shut.
Up through the window
You don’t know
whether the sun is rising or setting,
But it is pupil-bursting beautiful
and there’s no camera.
There are some things you can’t take with you.
Just seal them closed,
Packed away safe
Behind your eyes.