The End.

F A L T E R I N G

It’s morning now–like, too early–
and I find myself jealous
of even her still sleeping self.
To remain blissfully unaware
of the not so sweet everything
we screamed at one another
just a fistful of hours ago,
even if it’s only for another moment.
The indigo tinted light–inherently gentle–
is invasive at this hour.
As such, I tilt back this bottle of brown
and stare.
Deeply.
Desperately.
I accidentally clink the glass tip to my tooth.
But it’s more than enough to disrupt her.
The words seep out of her like a thick fog,

“What are you doing?”

I have too many answers for this
but ultimately settle on,

“Thinking.”

It was the most frustrating response
that broke through.
The air around her shifts uncomfortably
as her legs slide slightly beneath the sheets.

“No, what are you still doing here?”

The fog becomes noxious
and steals the air from my lungs.

F L I C K E R I N G

“Well, I guess I thought we could talk.
You know, figure things out?”

She laughs. It stings.

“I think we did enough of that last night.”
“I wouldn’t really call that talking.”

She gets out of bed.
The entire image of this room
reflects the pivotal moment of a film–
Something Romantic–
or the remains of such a thing.
Her feet glide, ghostly, across the floor
and she sits next to me.
But not too close.
I observe the desired distance
between
us.

“I’m just so tired, aren’t you?”

“Of this? I know. Me too.”

She swings her legs over the window’s ledge,
moving them freely but nervously
through the chilled air,
her tiny hairs standing tall,
swaying.

“Of us.”

“Oh.”

F A D I N G

We stare down onto the street below, despondently,
at all of the people that have places to be.
This is the only moment we’ve shared in ages.

“Well, how do we fix this? How do we fix us?”

She turns her gaze away
and our moment is gone.

“We don’t…”

Her voice is so cold
it cuts through my bones.
She clears her throat
but the words still scratch
at the air,

“…but you can, work on yourself, I mean.”

I don’t say anything right away.
But I can feel her looking at me.

“Okay.”
I say.

She gets up, without another word.
Her kneecap brushes against my thigh
while I continue to stare at the street.
Her look is lingering.
When I finally try to meet her eyes
they’re gone.
And as I look around the empty room
she steps onto the street below,
joining all of those people
that have places to be.
Everyone, except me.

S H E ‘ S  G O N E.

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