My heart hurts in the smallest moments. The mundane aches increasingly more than the tragic. Seeing you, for example, standing at the fridge looking in: an image that haunts me for no reason other than the innocence of a commonality. And the feeling of guilt, crushing me under words both said and unsaid. Feelings expressed and kept hidden. But you just stand there, searching in the way I do, unaware of the eyes on your back.
He carried with him only an overexposed polaroid, never forgetting the significance. But how is he supposed to tell anyone this all white saturation was all he had left of the one he loved the most? An ironic last image. The white before the darkness. To others, it was something wasted. But to others, so was the time that came beforehand. To him, the only thing wasted was the goodbye on the dirty airport sidewalk because no single word could have prepared him for a lifetime without her.
The sky hovered somewhere between grey and blue in the early morning cacophony of color. Outside my window, an old man struggled to shovel snow. A car drove slowly by, pausing in front of the man. They must have exchanged a few words before it rolled away. The man watched it go, then turned back to the house.