The little reminders are stabbing. They take my breath away for a moment, and then the hollowness of the situation takes place in the stomach. But as his coffee cup, still and stationary on the kitchen shelf, says: nothing is ever black and white.
I said my peace and asked for his hand for one last dance. In the morning I turned from his goodbye, not from him. Of course it would be this way. He made his decision, and I made mine. He went for opportunity; I chose conviction. His actions set distance; My words took the affinity to a close. Both free from communication, free from sight, free from ties--not from thought.
If only it could have been black and white.
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