half stop

I wonder if it will ever go away. That itch that plagues my mind when I read or laugh or make petty conversation - it doesn't go away. Memories of it taint my every cell, my every moment breathing and living. I read her archives today and I didn't like them. There are no skeletons in her closet - she's got them right out there, a parade. And he was there, watching.

It's funny. I remember him every time I look at the rug in my living room. It's not so special, not so colourful or different. But there's something about it, something that catches my eye. And even when I'm not home, I know the patterns on my rug as if they were embedded in the palm of my hand.

Do I wonder what could have been? Yes. But what was and what will be are a greater mytery than he ever was.