Actions speak louder than words, so when you left my eardrums ruptured. The windows exploded outward. The carpets rolled up tight like scrolls no one wanted to read. When you left, I was thrown against the wall. The painting of the Last Supper fell, glass shattering all around Jesus, and I couldn’t help wondering if he still flinched at pain. Actions speak: you packed your bag, and I coughed salt into the bathtub, chest dented. Actions speak: you didn’t slam the door on the way out, you left it open like you wanted me to follow, or you wanted me to be pathetic enough to follow, and I stood on the threshold and watched birds topple from the trees, stunned. Actions speak louder than words, but words still have volume. Last weekend, beside me in bed, our legs touching, my left elbow brushing your right elbow, you said you were in love with someone else. With O. Just O. Olive? Oliver? Oleander? Oil over my feet after the bottle slipped from my hands. I waited there watching the golden liquid coat the pine floors, helpless to act after the damage was already done.
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