I skipped town. Not because there was somewhere else to be. Only somewhere I couldn't. I left trying to do right. No wonder it all feels so wrong. Finally, a gas station where nobody knows whose future fiancée I was. My rabbits never ask where we are, nor where you went. I keep telling myself this trip is for me and I almost believe it. Homesick. But where is home anymore? Somewhere between leaving and arriving, I'm becoming an island. Every mountain looks at me with your eye

Grief is trying to untie a knot by pulling the wrong string. Each tug tightens it until the tangle becomes something you've made with your own hands. There are scissors beside you. But cutting would mean no going back. So you keep pulling. To heal is to pull the knife out. Everyone tells you it's the only way. So you pull. And you catch your reflection in the maroon pool beneath you and mistake yourself for him. You still hope the neighbors' footsteps in the stairwell are his