We both signed up for this
IV.
My life is still in its drawing board, waiting for confirmation.
We designed our future around ourselves, or perhaps I did.
You, you fixed your past for my convenience. You repainted the walls of your achievement, dusted the trophies given by ex-girlfriends who remain your friends, framed the certificates of merit you receive by being the best conversationalist. You fine-tuned your car and gave it a neutral name, you changed the interiors that someone else designed. You changed the curtains and bought new bed sheets. Then you changed my name. We had the same name for a while. It's a miracle we didn't confuse each other with a million others who christened themselves with the same name.
I didn't mind. If only in name, we were one. At least you gave me a space in your medicine closet for my toothbrush.
But that was such a small space, so easy to vacate. Soon I gathered the little things that occupied it, myself included. You were nice about it. You drove the little things home.
And I can see you, peeling off the pleather covering your car seat, buying a pail of paint, putting up new curtains.
You never occupied a space in my house. But it just seemed like you wouldn't leave. I wouldn't let you. I couldn't face the idea of planning another kind of future. Because the one I created around you seemed so confirmed. You had your signature all over it.
In the end, I gather you in a box and burn you. I still keep the debris, though. So you live on.