A wall of boxes in the hall, in the bedroom, in every room, all hers. Empty drawers, pictures taken down, my few things still in their place.
It is like trying to suck just the yolk out of a scrambled egg.
The boxes will be lifted, and carried down stairs, and set in a truck, and there will be an echo when she closes the door.
And the failure, again, and the facing myself alone, again, without being able to see a reflection in her eyes that makes me look better than I really am, without the voice that says you are better than you think you are, and having to admit that she — I cannot admit it.
No, yes, I can: She was wrong. I am not better than I think I am. I am worse.
I am sorry, and it bounces off bare walls, I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry.
~O~
: EVERY MOMENT IS LOVELY, YES :
3 x like a billion = how much I love you:
I'm sorry, too, sweet sweet Otto.
I love you too
hm. sigh. breakups.
it's nice when they don't involve sheer and utter hatred and devil-possessed spewing of venom, tho.
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