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There are things that I want
that you can no longer offer. Time,

mostly.  You tendered it once, slipped
it into my waiting palms

like a tissue. My fingers didn’t know
what to do with that

delicate whiteness, fragile
like the edge of a dream. And now,

what can I do with this
sudden emptiness? The ghost

in your eyes still whispers promises
I know you can’t make. Would it be enough

to stitch them in colorful ribbons
and thread them through my hair?

Or will my wrists always ache
with the quiet pulse of memory?
The woman poured herself another glass of wine,
Like another night alone.
The house was empty,
And the humming of the dishwasher bounced off the walls.
She sat by the window and pulled the black heels off her feet.
This was beginning to get old.
People outside paced in pairs.
Her house was dark.
The only light came from the kitchen,
glowing out to the adjacent ro0m.
She sipped at her wine, and rested the glass on her knee.
With an exasperated sigh,
She threw the wine glass against the opposite wall.
The glass flew, sparkling in the dim light
And merlot ran down the white wall.
She dusted off her hands, and undressed silently.
In the bathroom, she started water for a shower.
In silence, once again, she stood under the rush of water.
An hour's time went by, and the water was shut off.
Without bothering to dry herself, she stepped out,
And fell into bed.

— The End —