He got gone. Early in the morning after what seemed like just another day and another night in almost happy and almost alright.

He got good and gone and took all his shoes, even the ones he never wears, so there are dust outlines in the closet.

He told me he was getting ready without words. He told me he was going when he wouldn’t hold my hand in the supermarket or when he didn’t say he was sorry.

I guess we should clean more often, because with everything he took there’s an outline now.

The depressed parts of the carpet where his bookshelf used to be, the outlines of the pictures on the walls, and the shoes

. I should have paid more attention but then I think I paid all the attention I had even the little bit I used to reserve for myself.

I look in the mirror in the hall and I look confused and wretched. He got gone, now what?

A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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