Ok.
Look it’s late.
I said ‘okay’. Go ahead.
There’s no coming back.
I assumed that.
And?
What? Want me to say 'Go fuck yourself' ?…not my style.
Just go?
You got it.
Goodnight.
Goodnight.
The
door needed to be re-hung so it hung straight, but as-it-was-warped and heavy, it got hung-up
instead. The hinges needed to be replaced, old and rusty, it made for a
difficult time closing, until finally with a heavy tug, a wincing squeal, scraping floorboards, the deadening
thud echoes down the hall. This was no graceful exit. This was no whisper or tiptoe. This was a painful exit, a bones-rattling-in-bed, sleep shattering exit. Saddened by the lack of
connection when hope had carried you so close yet again. Now, half-way down the hall-way of the for-gotten. You hate yourself for feeling so awkward while the other one could care less about the racket or the relationship. She knew how to say 'go- fuck-yourself' ....not-her-style...but her dagger, instead>
