I'm not sure there is anything left to say. Months of tumbling words have passed, and I've been wringing them out like hand-washing cashmere: gently squeezing, and certain they would never stop dripping.
Then today, I sit here, seemingly worded out. Testing myself with prodding feelings, using memories as a nerve-stimulator: waiting for the heartburn.
Perhaps time is chalk, after all. Smothering the burning acid of longing and regret that I thought would never quieten.
Then again, acid tends to etch its pattern wherever it touches. So, although the twist of pain no longer catches me by surprise, the ripples of its movement across me will always be evident.