He latched onto my nipple.
The way newborn sons latch onto nipples-only distant. And the scenario takes me
back to a place of pubescent butterflies and crimson donuts sprinkled in Christmas glitter gold.
I sigh, and run my fingers through his hair-short, refined, tousled. The gold of the calico blond strands shimmer beneath the sunlight probing into our little secret affair.
From amidst his suckling, he glances up at me, my reflection stares back. I look down at my white dress. The eyelets on my dress are like the windows of my soul, missing threads.
I sweep an anxious eye across the nightstand. Divorce papers unsigned, yet lay perfectly folded beside a pen tempting me to sign the mistake you’ve made.
My mind drifts back to that hot August afternoon. A sticky note posted to you from me on our front door: Dear John, Your girlfriend called. I forgot to buy Kleenex at the store. You moved out, and he was to move in, your best friend who didn’t know you had moved out prior to him knocking on what used to be “our” front door, on a late September morning.
He leaves me a sticky note on my front door: X O, X O, empty boxes.
I am guilty to say we now share in this room, no longer sacred or abide by or united in our matrimony. Not even my nipple knows no boundaries as my tears slip through the sand of decaying bones; your mother’s ring. It no longer resides on my left hand.
My nipple grows raw, not with sensation, but with sentiment.
Because the open range echoes the sound of death’s love aging gracefully near. I thank you for the memories of when my heart was broken next to my good China.