Odd how it always passed. The darkness, dankness, coldness so close. Stinging strikes to the face. The angry whine ringing in the ears and its echo staying in the heart long after.
Odd how the light could still be seen in the distance, mocking and unreachable. A ray of hope that calmness might return.
Odd how each time past I would observe, waiting for the path home to become bright and dry. Patience like an oilskin protects . . . up to a certain point.
This time it remains hanging. I am not looking.
This time she won't be back.
Thanks to The Mag.