Something about seeing him that way, with a six pack in a bag, in his ragged dressing gown and damped down hair made me feel alive. Like I could do anything, who cares anyway. He threw a fist in the air, calling out to his friends as he ran through traffic. Sharp air, jagged with icy condensation whistled through my lungs. White noise. Heels dragged over uneven ground. I could’ve strangled him, instead I drew in the murky air and strode up the street. I walked in front of a car. I smiled at that innocent angel haired boy with the homely eyes and firm hands who smiles like the first scoop of honey and dew drops in the morning. Walked through closed barriers. Heart pounding like cymbals. Lungs heaving like white hot swords shifted within them. I had wanted to give him everything, to save him from that bed of his. I want to give him nothing. He is the sore thumb about my life. What a waste. 


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