After three thousand days we stopped loving.
It left quietly, before the first blue in the sky,
while one could still see stars and long shadows.
It walked barefoot across the moonlit floor admiring its feet,
holding a pair of shoes in one hand and an old toothbrush in the other.
It tried to look back but the thought of salt was too great. When it
reached the door,
it shut its eyes going back to minutes prior, with you in bed and your
It tried to memorize your lashes and the creases in your lips, each
It wanted more time but knew that more time was not an option.
It did not close the door entirely for fear of making noise, so
after we stopped loving, everything was framed in the sullen violet
of almost morning. Almost something that was not enough.
by Erika Moya
Erika Moya is a painter and writer. Her work has appeared in Qaartsiluni, the Smoking Poet, the Holly Rose Review, SN Review, the Toronto Quarterly, and Mosaic: Art and Literary journal of the University of California, Riverside. She attends the MFA program of the University of North Carolina Wilmington.