For the Limits of Love

Today,
when you deposited me
at our doorstep
and drove away in your
routine rage,
I stood among orange leaves
of winter
(abandoned by trees,
trampled by pedestrians).
I soaked in the impetuous
December rain,
but my eyes remained
uncharacteristically
dry.
For the first time
I crowned fury,
allowed it to consume
love and its
constituents;
sans remorse or guilt,
I wished that you
never come home to me.