How can I leave him? Let me count the ways.  It is perhaps ironic that I would bastardize a love poem when thinking about a leave poem, but what else can you do when love is, if not gone, then buried under decades of composting sameness and inattention? What once was hot and vibrant now chilled by cold shoulders and colder words. What happened to the intimacy, the passion that we swore, so long ago, would never diminish? Right now I am tired. Tired of washing laundry and folding towels, searching for those elusive socks that disappear and seem to mean so much to him. I’m tired of tv sports and armchair coaches. Tired of being the “other”, rather than a significant other in…

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