He left in the rain.

November 11, 2004

He left in the rain all those years ago, bags packed. Without a sound, without a trace, without a backward look. Fevered recriminations, numbed sorrows, grey nothingness, eventual acceptance. Left behind to clean up the mess I wonder who detonated the bomb. And I wonder why. Would chasing the world over change the leaving? Would undoing the wounds undo who we are? Are the people we are now any different than the people we were or are there just more scars? He left in the rain, yes, but neither one of us has taken a step.

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