Bone to Pick

Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.

She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.

How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.

She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.

Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.

Wished she had stayed one more day, though.

Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.