I brush dried brine from my sleeves in irritation. A momentary distraction from the slow work of suffocation. Vanilla fields stretch as an endless grave for a euthanized relationship. My jaw has the same tension and white lines of exertion as my knuckles. It seems there is never a shortage of this eventual obligation. Memories are ceremoniously packed away into plain cardboard boxes for retrieval by nighttime rummagers. The fallacy of sunken costs is a flimsy shackle, made of empathy and crinkled paper. The clouds parted without rain, and I slept for a year in room that smelled of prefabrication.
10:10 a.m. - 2017-03-13
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