Maybe
Maybe we’re getting divorced because you put the stick of butter in front of the butter dish instead of in it.
Maybe we’re getting divorced because I vacuum and you just can’t see the dirt.
Maybe we’re getting divorced because I make more money than you and you stayed home to raise our boys.
Or the long commute or the fact that you snore when you sleep or the way my voice goes up an octave when I am really upset…Or the affairs and lies (yours, mine, ours) or the time you screamed that you hated me, you really hated me
There are a lot of relationships that survive more than this, you said.
You weren’t specific. One of our faceless therapists nods.
They don’t get divorced, you said. And “divorced” sounded poisonous, wrong.
You are right and I nod but in my heart my reasons are enough.
They all add up and congeal into one concise document with all of the wording just right.
The blame is left out of the margins and neat sentences cover up all of the pieces that read between the lines
You bend over to sign.
The pen smudges and curves
It no longer matters.
The end remains the same
The Wandering Empath 